The Death of Justice
by The Black Hart
Summary: Deathstroke the Terminator. Wonder Woman. The Bat of Gotham. The Red Hood. The stage is set for the world's greatest heroes to rip the Earth apart. In the wake of Superman's death at the hands of the greatest mercenary in history, the world is rocked by change. Lines drawn. Betrayals suffered. Earth barrels towards an uncertain future. Where are the heroes they so trusted?
1. The Job

**The Death of Justice**

 **Chapter 1**

 _August 19_ _th_

 _Lex Luthor's Office_

 _2:38 P.M._

"I still don't think this is wise." Lena's voice was nonchalant, yet obstinate. It grated on Lex's ears.

"Your complaints are noted, sister, and are ignored." Lex tapped the button of his intercom system. "Mercy?"

Lex's office was ovular. "You ought to have run for President years ago, Lex. You've ego enough for it," Lena would often joke. The room was clothed in warm furniture and classical decorations, a roaring fire to the far left. On the far right were enormous, floor-to-ceiling windows that were tinted black to block out the midday sun. Only the dim lights and the crackling fire illuminated the room.

Lex sat imperiously behind his impressive desk, his hands folded and resting on the hard surface of the wood beneath him. The majority of the desk had been cleared away, forming a kind of aisle in the center where transactions and discussions could be had, eye to eye, face to face. There was a simple lamp on the left side, next to a paperweight and a sleek pencil holder. On the right was his computer next to a picture of himself and his sister.

Lena, for her part, luxuriated on his antique chaise lounge, her leg crossed, her foot idly tapping as she inspected her finely trimmed nails. She was far from eager to be here, as evidenced by her myriad of complaints. She firmly disagreed with Lex's plan and hard argued with him for days, to no avail. When Lex set his mind on something there was nothing that could deter him. She had few options. What was a sister to do when she knew her brother was walking into hell but walk with him?

On the opposite end of the office, one of the large, double doors opened. Mercy sauntered in, resplendent in her suave business attire. Lena was of the mind that Mercy was secretly a metahuman herself. No woman ought to be able to pull off a business suit and skirt like she could. In Mercy's left hand was a briefcase. It was long, thin and gleamed off the crackling light of the fire, its reinforced metal exterior catching the light and holding it captive. A similar case was in her right hand, but it was considerably smaller, yet wider and bulkier.

Mercy walked, stone faced and serious to the opposite side of Lex's desk and lade the long, thin case atop it. It was a testament to the length of Lex's desk that the case fit just perfectly, still allowing room on either side for his décor. She pushed against it and it slid across the wooden surface like smooth ice, eagerly running into Lex's waiting hands.

Lex reached down to the bottom right drawer of his desk and withdrew an unassuming metal key from a false bottom within the drawer. He did the same on the other side – though the key from the left side resided in a different drawer – and inserted them into the case at the same time, turning them away from each other. Two _clicks_ resounded satisfyingly throughout the room and Lex set the keys down on his desk. A quick scan of his thumbprint released the last lock in the center of the case and Lex flipped the lid up, releasing the eerie glow of the weapon within.

His face bathed in green light, Lex took hold of the hilt and withdrew the blade within. It was a Jian blade, its hilt a sleek black, offset wonderfully by the pure green glow of the blade. A blade of pure Kryptonite. Fashioned into an edge so sharp it appeared as if only looking upon it might cut you, the blade had been a pet project of LexCorp's R&D Department for the last three weeks. The weapon in his hands was worth millions.

"Clarent," Lex named it.

Lena snorted, still not looking from her nails, despite the abrupt change in lighting brought on by the sword's release. "Poetic."

Clarent. Mordred had wielded a blade of the same name and had used it to strike down his invicible father, Arthur of Camelot. Excalibur, the blade of virtue and purity. Clarent, the blade of iniquity and vulgarity. Twins. Opposites. The Sword in the Stone and the Bastard's Blade. It was almost unfair really. Arthur had, had his Excalibur, his Holy Blade. The Man of Steel would have no such defense against the Bastard's Blade, reborn.

Lex set the blade back within the case and shut it, listening as the locks automatically reengaged. He firmly gripped the handle of the long case, lifting it from his desk and setting it down at his feet. Lex looked back up at Mercy who stood still, patiently waiting for directive from her superior.

"The other piece?" Lex asked in his calmly, imperious voice.

Mercy silently hefted the bulkier of the two cases and similarly slid it across the desk into Lex's hands. Lex again scanned his thumbprint on the digital display at the junction of the case's two halves.

" _Voice recognition and passcode required_ ," the computerized voice intoned.

"Lex Luthor. 1992."

" _Voice recognized. Passcode accepted_."

The box clicked open and Lex calmly lifted the lid. Lena pursed her lips in annoyance. Again, the room was bathed in ethereal green light. It was quite grating on the eyes in Lena's opinion but Lex seemed not to share her view. Lena was rather convinced he had tinted the windows because the glow would not have looked near as impressive in sunlight.

Lex lifted his newest prize from the box, pleased with what he saw. A copper colored gauntlet with veins of Kryptonite, this was another multimillion dollar project – one far more expensive than Clarent had been. The Kryptonite alone had cost millions but the true cost had come in the material of the gauntlet itself; condensed dwarf star alloy. This gauntlet was made of materials only found in deep space and it had taken millions to even locate a rich enough source comparatively close to the Earth. The end result had been worth it. Clarent had a sheath. If caught unawares, the Man of Steel could dispatch its bearer before the sword ever breathed fresh air. This gauntlet would solve that issue. Superman wouldn't even be able to stand within one hundred feet of whoever was wearing it.

And Alexander Luthor had a very good idea of who would be wearing it.

Still holding the gauntlet tenderly in his hands, Lex met Mercy's eyes again.

"Contact Slade Wilson."

 _August 23_ _rd_

 _Outside LexCorp_

 _12:03 P.M._

The headquarters of LexCorp was a testament to modern ingenuity, affluence, architecture and arrogance. A steely gray building of stone and glass, LexCorp was an entrancing amalgamation of physics defying curves and edges. It towered hundreds of feet over the city, dwarfing every other building in the city and casting its shadow across the Daily Planet as if the building itself reflected its owner's vendettas. Luthor had always been sore about Bruce Wayne refusing to sell him the company.

Rose puffed out a final hit on her cigarette, staring up at the modern building with indifference, the gleam of sunlight off the glass dimmed by her retro sunglasses. All she saw in the grand, stone monolith was a waist of good money. Money that could be spent on so much better things than opulent buildings. Things like sports cars and motorbikes and weapons. She had nothing close to Lex Luthor's wealth – she doubted even her father came close to that figure – but she had millions tucked away in off shore accounts from her own solo jobs. Some she had even managed to hide from her father.

Rose flicked the butt of her cigarette into the nearby trashcan and straightened her jacket. She hated these assignments. She was largely solo these days, having left her apprenticeship behind when she had turned nineteen. She maintained an amicable relationship with him, though – as amicable a relationship as one could have with her father at least – and occasionally they passed each other jobs or did each other favors. Her father's favors usually came in the form of giving her credibility in the wider market. She was still considered 'new blood' in the community, having only run her own ops for the past two years. Rose's favors were considerably more laborious. When it came to big name clients – like Lex Luthor – and big jobs – like any of the kind Luthor would be offering – her father always sent a proxy in his stead for early negotiations. Namely, Rose.

Rose had no idea what Luthor wanted or what he was offering and neither did her father. But they both knew billionaire businessman who moonlighted as supervillains only offered big jobs and equally big payouts. Her father was interested on principle and so here she was, walking into LexCorp's lobby, intent on finding out why Luthor had kicked up such a storm to find her father and drag him into a meeting.

It had actually been pretty big news in the Legion of Doom – an ostentatious title if ever there was one. Her father was technically a member of the Legion, but then so was the Trickster. The Legion was little more than a loose union of villains forced to band together to survive the far reach of the Justice League. Almost all of them still operated solo but the Legion's channels typically offered a fairly quick way to get in touch with other members. Luthor had cast a wide net in attempt to locate her father. Everyone from Sportsmaster to Black Manta to _Vandal Savage_ had been contacted and even then, her father had been so deep underground following a very close run-in with the Bat that no one could locate him. Finally, the chain had wound down from Luthor to Ra's Al Ghul to Sportsmaster to Cheshire to _her_. Her father hadn't even been aware Luthor was looking for him until she had told him. He had instantly requested she pay a visit to Metropolis to scope out the job for him.

A request made difficult by the desk clerk in LexCorp's lobby. He was pretty young guy to be running the front desk of a multi-billion dollar company, she had to admit, and he wasn't half-bad looking. He had, however, been leering at her since he walked in and was puffing himself up in an effort to appear as 'cool' and 'buff' as possible. She would have laughed if it wouldn't have further hampered her chances in getting to Luthor. The Red Hood left even the hardiest of civilian men wanting.

"Listen, hotness, you're cute but there's no way I can let you up to see Mr. Luthor. Bruce Wayne wouldn't be able to get into that office with a year's notice." He laughed as if this was very clever despite her being 100% sure Bruce Wayne could walk into this building any time he wished and see Luthor.

Under normal circumstances, Rose would have flirted and coerced a pass upstairs from the hopeless desk jockey but she had little time and less patience. It was the main reason she was particularly hesitant to carry this assignment out to her father. Two months ago Rose had taken down a Moroccan politician for the League of Shadows – her first real assignment from the League – but the mission had put her on the wrong side of a confrontation with the Huntress who had taken the death of the man to heart. The skimpily dressed neurotic had followed her across three continents in the time since and Rose knew she couldn't stay in any place too long.

"Listen, _cute stuff_ ," she said with quite a droll tone, "just tell your boss that Slade Wilson's daughter is in his lobby. If Luthor doesn't show me upstairs immediately, I'll leave." Actually, she would scale building and break in from the top floor but she thought telling the hapless fool behind the desk that wouldn't be that great of an idea.

The desk-jockey, to his credence, caught on fairly quickly to the fact that his flirting was hitting a brick wall. Not to his credit, his demeanor turned quite sour as a result and he aggressively grabbed at the phone attached to the wall, frustrated and annoyed. The phone seemed to work on a speed dial system because he only hit one button before holding the sleek device to his ear.

There was a pause.

"I'm sorry to bother you Miss Graves but there's a girl her demanding to be let in to Mr. Luthor's office."

Rose rolled her eyes, miffed. 'Girl' was the man's pathetic attempt at a petty insult. She was only a few years younger than him if she had to guess.

"I know Miss Graves," the man looked suddenly uncomfortable. "She says she's someone named Slade Wilson's daughter."

There was a pause.

The man paled, his eyes flitting over Rose's smug smirk. "Yes, Miss Graves." He numbly hung the phone back on the wall.

"Well?"

Rose could just make out the grinding of the young man's teeth as he worked his jaw. "There's an elevator on the far side of the lobby," he ground out, handing Rose a keycard labeled 'guest'. "It'll take you straight to Mr. Luthor's office."

"Thanks, hot stuff," Rose smirked.

She didn't wait to see his response to her final barb, departing from the front desk and walking further into the lobby. The inside of LexCorp was no less opulent than the exterior if the lobby was anything to go by. Yet more futuristic slabs and angles met her eyes as she took in the enormous room. The ceiling was nonexistent, stretching up and up and up, offering a view of what seemed to be every floor in the building. In the center of the room a large fountain filled the air with the roar of a powerful stream of water. Great stone letters spelled out 'LexCorp' in the middle of the wide arc of water. Beyond the fountain – about a hundred feet – she could see a distinctive glass elevator.

A swipe of her guest card opened the clear glass door and she stepped inside. There were two buttons, labeled 'office' and 'lobby'. She pressed the 'office' button, highlighting it in a circular green glow. It moved surprisingly quickly but the building was still enormous and the ride was lengthy. She fingered the key card for a moment and slipped it into the hidden pocket in the lining of her jacket. An all access card to Lex Luthor's office ought not to be squandered.

The elevator finally stopped with a soft _ding_ , the glass door sliding open to allow for entry into a long, rectangular room. It was a sparse and coldy decorated. There was a tall plant in each corner, a large desk behind which sat Luthor's infamous assistant/bodyguard Mercy Graves and a soft, leather couch opposite the desk. Rose wagered the majority of people who got this far were not often left waiting in the reception area of Luthor's office.

Mercy stepped from behind her desk to meet her as she walked into the room. The woman's face was cold and distant. She imagined Luthor got along with her famously. God, what must sex be like with a man as cold as Luthor? She had a feeling Mercy knew. She was positive she, herself didn't want to know.

"You are not your father," she stated the obvious.

Straight to business then. Very well. "The Terminator is a busy man. I am here to be sure this job isn't a waste of his time. If my father likes what he hears, then he will make his appearance."

Mercy quirked an eyebrow. "And if he does not?"

Rose smirked and leaned into her right hip. "Then I'm quite a good assassin myself."

Mercy gave no indication of her opinion regarding Rose's statements but the young assassin knew she had made no impression on the stony woman and, by extension, would make little impression on Luthor. She had met both before, of course. Deathstroke had done multiple jobs for Luthor – jobs she had helped on – but she had not crossed paths with the man since she'd gone solo.

Mercy turned on her heel and beckoned for Rose to follow. The sharply dressed woman opened the large door for her, allowing Rose to pass into the room alone before she sharply closed it behind her. There was Luthor, not twenty feet away behind a large desk, staring calmly and calculatingly at her. It was amazing, she mused. Rose Wilson had been trained by one of the greatest combatants on the Earth in all manner of weapons, martial arts and tactical techniques. She was 100% certain that in a straight fight, there were a thousand ways in this room she could kill Luthor. Yet there was nothing on Earth that could cause her to initiate that fight. There was something imposing about the man before him. Something that instinctually drew out respect and fear.

"Miss Wilson," Luthor greeted warmly – well, warmly for Luthor. "Or should I call you Ravager?"

Rose smiled easily and took her seat across from Luthor without permission to do so. She was acting as proxy to Deathstroke the Terminator. Luthor was well aware she was his eyes, ears and voice in this discussion and, as such, she could act as arrogantly as she pleased. Had she been the one being contracted by Luthor she would never have dared display such wantonly arrogant behavior. Luckily – or unluckily depending on the payout – this was her father's job and she need not worry about that.

"I'm here as Deathstroke's daughter, Luthor," she told him, smiling widely, "Not Ravager."

"A clear distinction," Luthor commented.

"Yeah. Ravager only has one eye," Rose laughed. That had been a joke she'd thought up a few months into her training in an effort to infuriate her father, who actually only had one eye. The eyepatch she wore when suited up was actually an ocular enhancement device that allowed her thermal vision, night vision, zooming effects and even access to her and her father's data archives.

"Your file indicates a cool professionalism. How interesting to see the dynamic change."

"Adaptation is the key to survival."

"Darwin?" Luthor raised an eyebrow.

"Me," Rose smirked arrogantly.

Luthor's face gave nothing away but she could swear a glint of amusement flitted through his eyes. Rose smiled to herself. Impressing the likes of Lex Luthor could yield a mountain of profits for her. For the first time today, she thanked her father for sending her on this assignment. It could lead to a lot of future payoffs.

Luthor folded his hands, a chill smile on his face. It was a smile of a predator; a big fish next to little prey. She had seen that look before but it had always been arrogant or cocky. Men who wore that face almost always had no business wearing. Frat boys and overcompensating inbreda without the strength of will to fight a drowned rat, let alone hold their own before a trained assassin. Luthor, however, was only confident. He was a genius who had planned for every possible outcome that could come from this meeting. He knew his place and Rose knew hers. She _was_ the prey and in ways she couldn't fathom, he was a _far_ superior predator.

"Delightful as your company is, Miss Wilson, I was expecting your father."

Rose shrugged, feigning indifference. Luthor was the big fish in this discussion and had she been here as Ravager, pursuing her own job, her demeanor would have been far different. She was here in proxy for Deathstroke the Terminator, however. It gave her certain privileges. She was confident such antics wouldn't hurt her chances for future employment. Luthor was more than intelligent enough to know the difference.

"Take it is as a compliment, Luthor," she suggested. "Deathstroke's plate is never empty. The fact that he sent his only daughter to parlay with you regarding… _whatever_ this assignment is, is not something to be taken lightly."

Luthor splayed his hands, his smile turning mockingly apologetic. "Be that as it may, this assignment is very…sensitive. I cannot entrust the details of it to anyone but Deathstroke."

Rose shrugged and lifted herself from her chair. "Then you'll have to find another mercenary."

That was a gamble. Luthor clearly desired for Deathstroke in particular to be his man for whatever assignment the bald genius had in mind. In his search for the Terminator, Sportsmaster, the Hook, Deadshot and several others had offered their services in Deathstroke's stead and Luthor had not even acknowledged their offers. That said, there were limits to the privileges her advocate status allowed. Deathstroke could afford to make that ultimatum. He and Luthor had a long history and both understood the limits of the other party. Rose had neither a history with Luthor nor a rep enough to make such ultimatums. She only hoped Luthor's respect for her father made him play his hand.

Luthor's face remained the same, but the air filled with the scent of confident triumph. Instantly, Rose was aware that she had lost. All impression she had made on Luthor in the first few minutes of this exchange evaporated. She had not impressed. The billionaire shrugged.

"If that is the way of things," Luthor feigned a sorrowful acceptance.

Rose inwardly winced. Beyond the sting of losing any and all of Luthor's respect in the span of a few seconds, the horror of what her father would do to her if she returned to tell him she had lost a lucrative business opportunity to arrogance she had no right to hold was vivid in her mind. Swallowing her pride, Rose leaned forward, pressing her palms against the edge of Luthor's desk in an attempt to appear as authoritative as possible. Beside anyone else, she may very well have at least appeared equal. Alas, it was not the case here.

"Luthor, I am here with all the authority of Deathstroke himself. I can tell you want my father on this assignment but he is currently preoccupied with other matters. Make it worth my while and I will make it worth his, I assure you."

Rose hated the words spilling from her mouth. She hadn't had to backpedal in a business conversation like this in years. It was galling. That damnably calm smile on Luthor's face was grating on her nerves.

Luthor drummed his fingers against his desk in thought. Rose wasn't fooled. Whatever decision the bald egomaniac had come to, he had come to it instantly. This was little more than a show to grate on Rose's nerves and remind her of her place. Luthor let out a long suffering sigh, seeming to all the world as if he was the most put upon man in the planet. He gazed deeply into Rose's eyes. She didn't blink, though the urge to look away was intense. The barest glimmer of something akin to respect flashed across Luthor's eyes. She had a feeling very few were capable of meeting this man's gaze.

"Oh very well," Luthor conceded. "Something to whet the appetite then."

Luthor pushed his chair back, the wooden legs scraping against the cool floor. He stood, straightened his already impossibly straight suit and strolled across the room, stopping before a painting that depicted the Fall of Man. Luthor fingered the right side of the from, lifting it slightly with his first two fingers. It gave way and swung in a wide arc, revealing a large, metal safe behind.

Rose snorted. "Clichéd, much?"

Luthor hummed noncommittedly, too busy working on opening the safe to pay much attention to the young assassin. Rose had to give the man props. The painting swung just wide enough to block complete view of the man and his workings and there were absolutely no reflective services angled in any way towards the safe. She had no way of seeing what went on behind the painting.

In short order, Luthor returned to his desk holding a long, thin case in his hands. He laid it gingerly upon the table and ruffled about inside his desk for a moment, withdrawing two keys.

Rose folded her arms, impatience written across her face. "Luthor," she called to him.

"I assure you, Miss Wilson," Luthor replied without looking up from the case, "The contents of this case will be more than enough for Deathstroke to make a decision regarding this assignment."

Luthor submitted his thumb to a scanner on the case and with a final click it opened. The bald billionaire flipped the lid open with great care and withdrew a sheathed sword. The pommel and its sheath were a deep black. It was seemingly a regular, ungarnished sword. There were no engravings or markings, not even a color palette. Yet Luthor held it as if it were a delicate child.

"A sword?" Rose questioned disbelievingly.

Luthor smiled a smile then. A wide, predatory smile that held more sadistic joy than Rose had ever seen displayed in a human being. With no words, Luthor pulled lightly on the pommel, effortlessly pulling the blade from its sheath. The afternoon light robbed the sword of its ethereal glow but the distinct green of the blade was unmistakable.

Rose was filled with awe. Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened. It took a moment but she managed to wrest control of her eyes from the sword and back up into Luthor's eyes. What she saw there made her more intimidated than anything the man had done or displayed thus far. There was genuine smugness there. An arrogance the likes of which only a man like Lex Luthor could display.

"You're going to have to dig deep Luthor," she warned. "Real deep."

"I assure you, Miss Wilson," Luthor smiled, "my pockets are _very_ deep."

 _August 23_ _rd_

 _Metropolis streets_

 _1:44 P.M._

Rose's custom bike zipped through Metropolis' afternoon traffic. Her honed senses effortlessly allowed her to judge the width of the gaps between the cars, calculate however fast she'd need to go to avoid a collision with the myriad of random vehicles she encountered and when to mount a curb if there weren't any gaps she could get through. All the information was processed and subconsciously carried out by her trained hands. Driving quickly and recklessly wasn't something that frightened her. She had always been a good driver, particularly on motorcycles. She wasn't even really paying attention to what she was doing, far too preoccupied with her own personal thoughts.

Whatever she had expected from her meeting with Luthor this morning, the contracted killing of the Man of Steel had not been on her list. A businessman, a politician, a low ranking Leaguer yes but _Superman_!? Luthor had put a lot of thought into this clearly. The blade she'd been shown had been one of pure Kryptonite. An ounce of that stuff costed hundreds of thousands of dollars. She knew; she and Deathstroke had attempted to procure enough to weaponize several years earlier. Such a purchase would have bankrupted her father. She could only imagine how much a blade of such hefty proportions had cost the billionaire. Further discussion had revealed that Luthor supposedly had another Kryptonite toy he would donate to Deathstroke in exchange for the accepting of the contract. That wasn't even counting however much Luthor was going to pay her father for the contract and she knew Deathstroke's figure would be far from small.

Rose supposed she shouldn't be surprised. Luthor's vendetta against Superman was legendary in pretty much every community there was. Once upon a time, Luthor had taken Chairmanship of the Legion of Doom with the sole purpose of unifying the Legion under a banner to wage war against the last son of Krypton. He had quickly been ousted, luckily, but that was only his most famous plot. Kidnappings, blackmails, threats of mass murder, all out assaults in that ridiculous robotic suit he'd carried around for a few years. Luthor consistently threw all he had at the Man of Steel and was consistently rebuffed. Taken all into consideration, Luthor's decision was one of logic.

Rose floored through a red light, her back wheel just escaping the rapid acceleration of a BMW, the driver of which honked angrily at her. By the time the sound outrageously escaped the car, her bike had already taken her well out of earshot.

Rose sunk back into her thoughts.

Logic did indeed dictate that this was a perfectly natural course of action for Luthor to take. That said, Luthor had never been one to display much logic when it came to the Man of Steel and his plots against them. It had happened long before Rose could remember but his ridiculous "Beachfront Property" plan was still laughed about in Legion Speakeasies. So why, after all these years of handling his nemesis himself, did Luthor now have the balls to choke down his pride and hire someone to do the deed for them?

Luthor was far from the Man of Steel's only enemy but he was Superman's nemesis for a reason. Everyone and anyone who wished to take a swing at that steely chin was welcome to try but it was an unspoken rule that Superman was Lex's prize and taking it would result in severe punishment. Or at least, Rose had thought it an unspoken rule. Luthor's actions of late seemed to strongly disagree.

There was one question that stood out in her mind, however. What was her father going to say? For the first time in her life, Rose truly didn't have any idea what decision her father would reach.

Rose pulled herself from her idle thoughts as she pulled up to her building. It was a decently sized building of twelve stories, made of simple brick and glass. Each floor was its own suite, rented out at just over fair prices. The building was situated just outside of the rich side of town. The perfect building for middle class, blue collar workmen to live in to pretend they lived the high life. Coincidentally it was also the perfect apartment for an assassin to live out of when she was in town. Superheroes and cops all had ingrained preconceptions that people like her hid out in the worst, dingiest side of town. She found that quite amusing. What was the point of making millions in assassinations if they didn't live it up a little?

She was quite proud of her little suite, not the least of which because it was absolutely and completely hidden. Even Huntress, with all her neurotic idiosyncrasies, wouldn't be able to find her here with all the records digging in the world. Rose stared up at the building, still perched on her bike, marveling at how easily people looked over the obvious when they weren't looking for it. For instance, this building actually had thirteen floors.

She had bought it from the Broker, a fairly well known real estate agent with fingers in pies all across the country. He made a wonderful living renting and flipping apartments and houses but his real income came from his criminal work. He leased, rented and sold dozens of safehouses to criminals all across the country – and even a few beyond if rumors were to be believed – using a very clever system. The Broker frequently commissioned the construction of apartment buildings – large scale and small – in major cities all across the countries. On all official documents, the buildings were completely normal but the Broker's personal construction crews always built additional floors on every building he built, off public records and never known to anyone but the Broker and his crews. Rose's entire apartment – and the apartments of countless others – were detective proof because on all official records, digital and physical, there was absolutely no mention of them ever existing in the first place.

It also saved the Broker a lot on taxes which Rose considered a worthwhile bonus.

Rose's nonexistent floor was in fact the seventh floor. As much as the paranoid assassin would have liked the first floor, that was impossible to hide, as was the top floor. Putting her floor in the middle of the building and simply cutting some space from her apartment to allow for the main stairway to avoid it made it incredibly easy for the civilians to ignore even the possibility that the extra floor existed. There were two entrances to her apartment. The far from glamorous 'front door' could be found in a small compartment behind the main stairwell in the lobby. It led to a ladder that climbed directly to her apartment. The route she more commonly used was the fire escape that still ran past her floor to keep up illusions.

A quick scaling of the metal ladder and stairs led to a window shut tight but easily opened. Rose climbed into her apartment. She grimaced at the sight before her. Jason had clearly been in town lately. The bed was a ruffled mess, the sink had dishes in them and his clothes were scattered around the floor. She was a very organized person, herself. Deathstroke had drilled compartmentalization into her. Her former street rat boyfriend had no such habits.

Rose sighed and checked the time on the oven. She had just under half an hour before she was expected to contact Deathstroke. Woe betide whoever kept the Terminator waiting, but the holy fire Rose would reign down upon those who dirtied her home wasn't to be underestimated either. Unfortunately, Jason wasn't here for her to reign said fire down upon and she didn't have the time to clean the apartment as thoroughly as would have made her comfortable. Groaning, Rose tossed her keys on the dining room table and made her way towards her bedroom, dreading the implosion Jason would have left behind. The door was closed – surely not a good sign – and Rose braced herself.

"Oh, I love you, babe." The words slipped from her mouth before she remembered she was supposed to be mad at him.

Her room was the sole sanctuary Jason had left her. It was spotless; no clothes on the floor, no dishes on the nightstand – even the bed was made! She had no doubt he'd slept in here – it was _their_ room, after all – but he had obviously been smart enough to know what would happen to him if he left this room in the same state as the rest of the apartment. It didn't make up for the rest of their home, but it allowed her to shut the door on the filth for an hour and let her focus on her conversation with Deathstroke. Sometimes Rose genuinely wondered if her boyfriend was precognizant.

Rose threw herself down on her side of the bed, immediately turning to reach into her night stand and pull out a large, bulky computer from the bottom drawer. The computer was thick, looking more like it was two laptops glued together and made of some kind of thick metal. A deep, matte black, it looked as if it could be bulletproof and, in fact, it was. In the entire apartment, this computer was Rose's most prized possession. Her armor came in a close second but, at the end of the day her armor was replaceable for a pretty enough penny. The laptop was different.

Everything connected to – positively and negatively – her Ravager persona had its home on the laptop. All of her contacts', few though they were, information was logged within her data archives on the computer, along with a file with _everything_ she knew on _every_ hero or villain in the game. Everyone from the Toymaker to Wonder Woman had a file in her computer, complete with known abilities, attributes, strengths, weaknesses and personal comments about how to interact with them. People like the Terror Twins were to be laughed at and disregarded whereas freaks like the Joker were not be associated with in any way. Her archives were technically connected to her father's but she needed a password to access them and Deathstroke changed the password once a week. And that was one of the most important functions of the computer in her lap.

Rose's father didn't even carry a semblance of a cell phone, burner or not. He did, however, carry a laptop much like hers that had a certain web address – the only way to contact him. As far as she was aware, Rose had the only permanent connection to the laptop on the Earth. Deathstroke updated the address after every major job so as to avoid pesky calls from clients who either weren't completely satisfied – rare – or wanted him to do something else. Everyone else who wanted to contact Deathstroke had to acquire his attention to get the current web address. Rose's laptop was connected to his and updated automatically.

Rose checked the time. Ten minutes to Deathstroke. She had already brought up the application. A push of a button would connect her to her father. She was tempted to initiate the call now, if only to release the swollen swell of nervousness within her heart. She knew, however, that Deathstroke would just leave her waiting until the ten minutes elapsed and the original time arrived. Deathstroke was a sucker for schedules.

How would this go down? What would her father say? What decision would be made? Rose had never been a fidgeter – such habits didn't play well with Deathstroke's training – but now she idly tapped her two fingers against the hard surface of her laptop, deep in thought. Of all the questions in her head regarding her father and Luthor and the job, there was a bigger, better question above it all that would not leave her. It was a question neither she nor her father had ever really been forced to ask.

What are the consequences of this?

Any and every job Deathstroke and Ravager had ever pulled – together or separate – the fallout of them had never expressly affected the two of them. The jobs put them in danger and threatened their lives, yes but after the job was done, the chaos they'd left in their wake became the problem of lesser men and women. This, though? Superman was an international icon, the leader of the Justice League, the _fucking_ Man of Tomorrow. For as many people in the world hated the Man of Steel – and there were plenty – a hundred more adored him. The Terminator and his daughter had never been anyone's favorite people but if Superman's blood was on their blades? The Justice League, the police, Interpol, ARGUS and every other military group, covert or otherwise would reign holy hell down upon them. The radicalists that came out of every crisis would form armies in the Man of Steel's name, cults would be formed and religions created all with the express purpose of revering Superman's name and destroying the two who had taken his life.

A new question formed in Rose's mind as the clock ticked over the final minute before her call to Deathstroke.

Could they afford to do this?

Deathstroke connected mere moments after she made the call. The clock still read the exact minute of the scheduled call. A sucker for schedules, indeed.

Slade Wilson was an imposing man even out of his armor. The eyepatch alone was enough to unnerve most people and, though it didn't carry over as much through a webcam, Rose was well aware of the fearsome physical presence her father had. The armor usually him them but now, dressed only in a black tank top, the Terminator's impressive muscles were displayed. He was cleaning one of his assault rifles now, his unkempt white hair falling into his eyes. He hadn't yet looked up from his work.

His good eye still locked onto the rifle, Deathstroke addressed his daughter in a deep baritone voice. "How did it go?"

Rose sighed deeply through her nose. Where to start?

The next twenty minutes of Rose's life were spent explaining in explicit detail every aspect of the conversation she'd had with Luthor – including her arrogant failings – from beginning to end. She included the smallest details of her demeanor and Luthor's response, the exact facial expressions Luthor had warn when explaining this or saying that and she, of course, described every detail that she had been given of the job. Rose had always taken her position as Deathstroke's eyes and ears seriously. Mostly because the few times she hadn't, her father had made her regret it.

By the end of her accounting, Deathstroke had laid his weapon down and folded his hands. His eye was vacant and far away, unblinking and hard. He was completely still. Rose could barely make out the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Rose settled in. This could take a while.

When Deathstroke finally rejoined his daughter in the moment, it had been half an hour. Rose had long since stood from her bed, turning the laptop in the direction of the door. Now, she had changed into a sports bra and yoga pants, passing the time with Tai Chi stances, patiently waiting for her father to speak.

She didn't break from her stance when he finally broke his silence. "Luthor is a fool."

There was no diatribe in the comment. There was no disgust or hatred. It was a simple statement of a fact. Rose would have smiled were it not for the gravity of the situation. Lex Luthor, a fool? The idea was almost laughable but this new plot brought the man's sanity into question.

Deathstroke sighed. "But he is a fool who pays well."

Rose's nose twitched slightly. "Who's more foolish?" Rose questioned, still carrying out her exercise. "The fool or the fool who follows him?"

She could almost hear her father role her eyes. "Damn space operas," the Terminator muttered under her breath. Rose smirked. She had stolen a boxset of the Star Wars movies years ago on a job in New York. At the time, they had been the only movies she'd ever seen. Deathstroke had a bad opinion of all types of movies. Action movies would give her bad ideas, romances would fill her with idiotic tendencies, comedies were wastes of time and the list went on. She had been severely punished for watching them at all but when it was done there was nothing to change that she had seen them. She enjoyed quoting them to her father, just to annoy him.

Rose dropped her stance and stared hard at the computer. "The point stands. How much are you willing to throw away for a payday?"

Slade raised an eyebrow but kept silent.

"That wasn't rhetorical," Rose told him.

"And I don't owe you an answer," Slade replied dismissively.

Rose breathed deeply through her nose. She had forgotten. Though their father-daughter relationship had improved markedly since she went solo, Slade Wilson was still Slade Wilson and, at heart, Slade Wilson was a sociopathic monster who only marginally cared about his daughter slightly more than his money. Rose was fairly convinced her position fluctuated depending on how big the amount of money was.

Rose folded her arms. "Fair enough."

"If there's nothing else I have things to mull over," Deathstroke said, his arm reaching out of frame, likely for the disconnect button.

"Wait!" Rose stalled him. Deathstroke paused, his steely gray eye turning on his daughter. She sheepishly rubbed the back of her head. "Penguin's got a job he wants done in Gotham. He's narrowed it down to me or Cheshire. Need you to put in a good word."

"I'll make the call."

Deathstroke disconnected.

Rose sighed, her arms falling down to her sides. "Thanks, dad," she said to thin air.

 _August 31_ _st_

 _Rose Wilson's Apartment_

 _9:38 A.M._

It's difficult to slam a window closed but Rose did manage it, somehow able to throw the window down with so much force it was surprising the glass didn't crack in protest. Rose much preferred the satisfaction of slamming a door but waltzing through the lobby of her apartment complex in full Ravager regalia and accessing a hidden compartment behind the stairs for sole purpose of being able to slam her front door seemed excessive to her even in her haze of rage.

Growling, Rose's armored hand grabbed agitatedly at the straps linked like an 'x' on her chest, her frustrated fingers taking several attempts to successfully unhook the straps. Her sword and assault rifle crashed onto the floor with resounding sound, Rose never stopping as she strode towards her room with purpose. Fury guiding her, Rose kicked her door bedroom door open as she angrily tugged her half mask off, throwing the object at the wall with force enough to make one think it had offended her honor. It clattered off the wall and onto the floor with almost as much noise as her weapons had made. Still moving, Rose plucked her two sidearms from her waste, angrily slamming them onto her bedside table before quickly reaching in to pluck the laptop she so cared for out.

Deathstroke was quick to answer despite the unexpectedness of the call. She had honestly expected to wait longer. Her father had caught her in the middle of furiously pulling at her eyepatch, the infuriating device suddenly not seeming to want to leave her head. She didn't notice him, too wrapped up in her anger filled task. With a loud growl she reached down, plucked a serrated knife from her boot and cut one of the straps that bound the offending ornament to her head. She threw it at the wall as angrily as she had her mask.

It was only then she caught sight of her father adorned – much like her – in full armor minus his mask. His eyepatch was there as well but, of course, his was a necessity. Deathstroke raised his only eyebrow, bemused and at the same time grim. It was a look Rose wasn't sure anyone else on the planet was capable of having.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, daughter?"

"Penguin!" she snapped, too furious to work around her father and his danger zones.

Deathstroke leaned back into his seat. "What about him?" he asked simply.

A gargled noise of fury escaped Rose's lips. She stood from the bed, jostling the computer with her lack of wait as she did so. "He chose Cheshire for the job!"

She stared at him intently.

Deathstroke stared her down, not saying anything.

"On _your_ recommendation!" she attempted to needle a response from him.

She received one, however it only served to infuriate her more. "I am not hearing a question." His voice was monotonous and infuriating.

Rose's face twisted into a sickly sweet smile that had no business residing on her face. "Oh I'm so sorry, daddy dearest allow me to properly phrase it for you, then. Why the _fuck_ did you recommend Cheshire to that bloated bird!?"

Deathstroke shrugged. "Cheshire is more suited to that job than you."

Rose froze, the shock of her father's words piercing her armor of anger. Rose had met her father when she was thirteen and had been training with him since day one. It had been hard, brutal, unforgiving training that had pushed her to her limits and beyond, at times leaving her broken and battered. In the years she had trained with him and the years she had been solo, her father had put her up against foes far her superior – often beating lessons into her himself – and watched as she got pummeled, beaten and nearly killed time and time again. Following each of these lessons there had always been an evaluation; a cold, hard telling of the facts. What she did wrong took precedent, yes but what she did right was there as well. It could never be said that Deathstroke had been an encouraging father but never had he so blatantly told her that someone was better than her.

"How dare you?" she found herself asking.

"Rose –" he attempted to cut her off.

"How _dare_ you!?" she repeated, her voice raising, the rage returning to her heart. "How dare you insinuate I am less than Cheshire! If there is anything wrong with _my_ skills, _my_ abilities it because of you and your training! If I'm so wrong for this job than it's _your_ fault! Maybe I should have asked Sportsmaster to train me and I would have ended up _better_ for it!"

"Rose!" Deathstroke spoke more commandingly, his firm voice cutting through her rage, triggering ingrained habits of obedience. Her mouth clicked shut but her eyes were still alight with anger and her breasts still rose and fell with heavy breaths. "Cheshire is more suited to that job than you. An assassination of a pathetic official? You're better than that. Cheshire isn't."

"Spare me the manipulative, fatherly bullshit, Slade! We both know you don't care about me and mine more than I'm useful to you. So what the fuck do you want!?"

Deathstroke's good eye twitched, clearly concealing anger. Rose was surprised. Deathstroke wasn't one to conceal anger. He was more of the 'release all anger at once in a display of primal violence' type of man. Her anger cooled a touch. Whatever this was, Deathstroke was exerting an unusual amount of self-control in support of it.

"I have a job for you. Alongside me."

"I'm solo!" she snapped habitually, too used to proclaiming that to mob bosses convinced she was still Deathstroke's lackey.

"I'm not hiring you as an assistant, Ravager. I'm hiring you as a partner."

Rose paused, her brow furrowing, forgetting her anger for a moment. In the entirety of the time since she'd gone solo, she had worked with her father only once beyond basic favors and he had made it explicitly clear that she had worked that job as his underling. Her pay had reflected that fact too. To offer her a job as a partner was something new, something she had never experienced and had no real way of responding to. What could possibly make him –?

Rose's heart dropped into her stomach, her heavy breathing turning suddenly erratic. All anger, all shock vanished, replaced by a fear she hadn't known she was capable of. Deathstroke had beat fear out of her at an early age. Fear of him had left no room for fear of anything else and when that fear had faded, so too had her ability to feel the emotion. But now?

Rose shook her head emphatically, stepping back from the laptop and accidentally bumping her butt into the dresser behind her. "No." Her voice was determined but shaking. "No way. I refuse."

"You haven't heard the reward," Deathstroke commented.

Rose scoffed. "10% of the golden ass of God himself couldn't convince me to go along with this suicide mission."

"50%. You're a partner this time, Ravager. You get 50%."

Rose would admit she paused. But only for a moment. "No, Dad. I'm not doing it."

"500 million dollars."

"Shit!" the expletive escaped her mouth before she could think. That was a higher number than anything she had remotely ever made and likely surpassed even the highest payday her father had ever experienced. "500 million…you said half. Luthor's paying you a _billion_ dollars!?"

Deathstroke chuckled to himself. "Luthor wasn't wrong," he mused. "His pockets are…very deep."

Rose gulped, an unsteady breath blowing out her nose. She was glad of the dresser she'd knocked into now. It made for good support. Her right hand came up, rubbing against her face as if attempting to will away the stress and fear this conversation had brought with it. She hadn't known what to expect when she had stormed into her apartment, intent on screaming her at her father. Rage had robbed her of her inhibitions. She had intended to cuss him out but beyond that, the haze of anger had blinded her to her father's possible reactions. She certainly hadn't expected this.

"Dad, I…"

Deathstroke silently reached down, his left hand disappearing outside of the camera's range and returning with a heavy, metal box. He laid it on the table, facing the camera, its weight making a considerable _thump_. Reaching around, Slade pulled off his right glove and placed his thumb on the scanner. A digital, feminine voice requested voice recognition and a password.

"Slade Wilson. 1026."

Rose blinked, her mouth forming into a firm frown. Her birthday. Slade was really piling on the manipulative fatherliness that had been lacking in her entire life. Slade pulled the case open, revealing a gauntlet within, copper and black. It almost perfectly matched the shade of her armor, she noticed. Rose's brow furrowed in confusion before it dawned on her. Luthor had mentioned a second Kryptonite toy that Deathstroke could keep. This must be it.

"You saw the blade. This is the gauntlet." Deathstroke looked up, his good eye intense. "You'll be wearing this one."

"Why?" she questioned, numb to emotion at this point in the conversation.

"The gauntlet is lined Kryptonite. It's concealed right now but can be exposed at any moment by the gauntlet's wearer. You could easily catch the Man of Steel off guard provided you can get him close enough."

Rose stared at him blankly. "I'm the bait." It wasn't a question. She knew her role in this. Slade may have asked her on as a partner but he already had his plan mapped out, her role included.

"You lure Superman in, disable him with a swift, Kryptonite punch and I handle the rest." Deathstroke leaned back into his seat, pleased with himself.

Rose gulped again. "And if I say no?"

Deathstroke didn't seem overly troubled, whether because of apathy or because he didn't think she actually would, Rose didn't know. He shrugged. "Then I'm a billion dollars richer and I have to tweak my plan. But you aren't going to say no."

"Why not?" she asked, a sharpness returning suddenly to her voice. "I'm far from a saint, Dad. I've broken a lot of laws, run afoul of a lot of people but I've never stepped into the ring with one of the heavy hitters of the League unless you count running from the Bat whenever he showed up to trade blows. This!? I'll be pinned to their radar for the rest of my, probably short, life."

"Whine, whine, whine," Deathstroke groaned in annoyance. "You got that from your mother, you know. She had a habit of not shutting up either."

"SHUT UP!" she roared, reclaiming her anger. "You don't get to mention her! You don't get to use her to manipulate me into helping you!"

"STOP ACTING LIKE A CHILD!" Deathstroke stood, his own voice raising above a monotone for the first time in the conversation. Rose reeled back as if struck. "You want to know why you'll take this job, daughter? Because you're my kid. You're Rose Wilson. You're Ravager and even if this job paid a 50th of what is being offered you'd take it because you live for this! You'll take it because it's a challenge. And most importantly, you'll take it for the stone cold rep it'll give you! You want jobs? You want contacts? You want clients? You'll have the pick of the litter when this job is done so, _goddammit_ Rose, shut the fuck up, stop whining and make your decision! Will you stand with me as a partner and equal? Will you solidify your place in our world!? Will you prove you're more than just my daughter!?"

Rose blinked and, for the third time in this conversation, gulped, her mouth suddenly dry. It took three attempts, her mouth opening and closing. It was surprising. It was a simple word. Short. Easy. Kids learned it way early. But it wasn't until the third time she opened her mouth that she managed to choke it out.

"Yes."

 _September 2_ _nd_

 _Location Unknown_

 _10:37 A.M._

On paper, Rose had to admit to her father that the plan was rather foolproof. The Man of Steel was a gullible do-gooder whose pathological need to save anyone and everyone who knew the word help regardless of how illogical it was _to_ save them mad him an easy man to lure into a trap. Rose would play the bait – a task she was far from looking forward to – armed with the gauntlet. When Superman flew in, a knight in resplendent blue, she would catch him off guard with her Kryptonite lined gauntlet, instantly weakening him and suppressing his absurdly powerful abilities. From there, the job became Deathstroke's completely. Armed with Clarent, he would swoop in from wherever he would be hiding and finish off the Man of Steel, sans monologue.

On paper, this was a very foolproof plan, Rose conceded.

In reality, this was _Superman_ they were discussing. The number of things that could and likely would go wrong were astronomical. The gauntlet could malfunction and not reveal the Kryptonite hidden behind its lead linings. The Kryptonite within the gauntlet might not be enough to completely disable the Man of Steel, allowing him to fight back or – more logically – escape. He might not be in Metropolis when the staged catastrophe occurred, instead off dealing with some interplanetary menace in the far reaches of space for the League. _Supergirl_ might show up instead of him! The list went on and on and on.

Deathstroke seemed oblivious to these very probable issues, seemingly completely confident that his plan would go off without a hitch, despite the odds that were stacked against them. It was quite unlike him. Normally Deathstroke would spend hours before a job agonizing over every miniscule detail, pondering every possible contingency, planning a hundred different back up plans. All of this he did for pathetic businessman whose only taste of conflict came from bad war movies! But the Man of Steel? Superman himself? Deathstroke seemed almost flippant.

Whether it was overconfidence or an attempt to mask his fear, Rose didn't know. However, she was inclined to believe it was the latter which was, itself, unnerving. Deathstroke had always been a rock. He was cautionary, he planned ahead, he prepared but he was never afraid. Face to face with the worst humanity had to offer, mid-fight with the Bat himself or crossing swords with Wonder Woman, Deathstroke always remained firmly grounded, in control of himself and the situation no matter what the situation may be.

In Rose, her fear of this job manifested in twitches that had never been there before. Often she caught herself idly tapping whatever was within reach with her delicate fingers or she would suddenly notice her quickly moving foot hitting the ground so quickly, so repetitively that the ground vibrated as a result. Once, she had horrifyingly caught herself chewing her nails!

Perhaps for Deathstroke, his fear manifested in carelessness.

Rose grimaced. A job like this? That was a dangerous manifestation of an emotion her father was _very_ unfamiliar with.

Regardless of the two Wilsons fears, however, the job was planned, set up and prepared for. Deathstroke had sent word of his formal acceptance of the job to Luthor – apparently he had been waiting out her answer before actually taking the job; she wasn't sure if she was honored by that news or not – and had received half of his pay upfront as a result.

Deathstroke had surprised her again. Normally on jobs where he received half pay upfront, it went completely to him and whatever percentage she was allotted was given to her when the second part of the payment came through. Not this time. Deathstroke had instantly split the money fifty-fifty, putting 250 of the 500 million directly into her account.

Rose was beginning to wonder if fear manifested as fatherly affection for him.

 _September 5_ _th_

 _Gleneagle Apartment Complex_

 _2:48 P.M._

It was amusing to Rose how easy it was to get the Man of Steel's attention. Batman had a bright signal that could light up the night sky of Gotham whenever the GCPD wanted but he still only showed up on a recorded average of 30% of the time. She knew. She had hacked GCPD servers and delightedly discovered that in the Bat's file. Wonder Woman was more of a freelance hero, serving at her own leisure or that of the League's. She had no set home and, as such, no surefire way to contact her, relying on her own senses to tell her where next to strike against evil. Superman? All you had to do was blow up a building.

It had been mostly empty. A few homeless people and some squatters on the lower floors. Whether or not they were still alive, Rose didn't know. Deathstroke had set most of the bombs off in the upper floors, not wanting to destabilize the building and lose their lure completely. There had been one or two placed strategically on the lower levels; enough to cause a loud noise and some fire. Situated on the third floor of the building, surrounded by flames and attempting to regulate her breathing just enough so as to take in air but not smoke, Rose couldn't really find the empathy to care. They were lost souls without a home and she was about to be 500 million dollars richer. A fair trade in her eyes.

Deathstroke was somewhere on the floor directly above her. There was a sizeable hole directly overhead, strategically created so as to allow Deathstroke to jump down atop the Man of Steel when he appeared but even if there wasn't a plume of smoke rising into it, he was still well out of sight of it, listening more than watching. Rose couldn't hold back a cough as more and more smoke attempted to fill her lungs. Now more than ever she regretted having adopted a half-mask rather than her father's filtrated full-mask.

Rose's internal clock ticked over three minutes and she breathed in her first deep breath. The initial explosion had no doubt caused a commotion and been responded to. She was sure Superman had heard but the building they'd chosen was largely abandoned. The poor souls in the lower levels weren't exactly documented and it was more than likely thought by everyone in attendance that the building was empty. Whatever emergency response was outside was likely there to prevent the fire from spreading to neighboring, inhabited buildings. Now she had to really attract the Kryptonian's attention.

Rose had never been much of a screamer. There'd never been much reason to in her eyes. Slade had made her scream plenty early in her training. Pain was a hell of a reason enough to scream but that was different and she considered it warranted. Even her father cursed and groaned when a bullet met its mark. But screaming for help? No, that had never been her. It was actually so foreign a concept to her that she had been practicing at Deathstroke's safehouse for the past two days, attempting to get it just right.

She believed she had a good enough scream to attract Superman's attention.

It took longer than she thought. Her internal clock had stopped counting after the three minute mark had passed but it easily felt to her pained chest that it had been longer than that since she had started screaming. In the time since she had begun, she had, had to breathe in far more and, as such, had inhaled quite a lot more smoke. At this point, her pleas for help were almost genuine. If this went on much longer, she'd pass out or choke to death.

But then the sound of glass shattering came to her ears. She opened her eyes and was met with only a hazy wall of black smoke. She couldn't see but it had to be him. She was too high up for anyone else to reach her that easily and no normal human would have been able to hear her from the ground over the roar of the flames.

Her suspicions were confirmed when a sudden gust of strong wind ripped through the room, battering the smoke to the edge of the room. Her vision cleared and she coughed, purposely keeling over to better disguise her well known attire. That she was indeed in an incredible amount of pain from the smoke she had inhaled lent credibility to the action.

His sure, confident footsteps next entered her ears, striding with purpose to her. Gentle yet firm hands grasped her shoulders and tentatively pushed her up. She took a moment to be genuinely amazed by him, having never seen him up close before. This would be her last chance after all.

He was the epitome of perfection. His jawline was cut perfectly. His hair, seemingly as strong as him was still resting in its perfectly combed position, undisturbed by his high speeds of flight or the massive winds he'd blown through the room. His face was a mask of concern, looking over her quickly.

"Are you o–?" He cut himself off, seemingly registering her appearance. "Ravager? What are you–?"

Rose smiled. "Sorry, Supes." Pushing through the pain in her chest, Rose clicked the button hidden in the palm of her gauntlet. The led linings smoothly sheathed themselves within the gauntlet, revealing the Kryptonite veins beneath.

Rose marveled at the instantaneous effect it had on the Kryptonian. He sucked in a deep breath, his face contorting into a mask of pain. His grip on her shoulders, only a moment ago firm and reassuring, weakened and slid, his knee buckling. Rose quickly delivered a merciless punch to the Man of Steel's face, the Kryptonite lining seemingly giving her, her own form of super strength. Superman rocked backwards, falling flat onto his back, a groan of pain emanating from his lips.

On cue, Deathstroke dropped from the ceiling, pulling Clarent from its sheath as he dropped. The vibrant, green glow of the blade filling the room by the time he landed.

Deathstroke strode across the room with deliberate purpose, holding Clarent firmly in his hands. He stepped over Superman's prone form, one foot now placed firmly on either side of the Kryptonian's waist. Grasping Clarent firmly in both hands, he held it high above his head.

"Nothing personal, Superman," Deathstroke grunted. "It's just business."

Clarent plunged downward, hungrily devouring the space between itself and Superman. It stabbed through the diamond on the Man of Steel's chest, piercing his chest with enough force that it stabbed into the floor beneath him.

" _Gurk_!" The Man of Steel choked, his arms limply attempting to rise to grab at the blade. Even that simple strength had been robbed, though. The hands fell back to the floor with resounding thuds.

The life left his eyes.

Superman died.


	2. The Fallout

**Death of Justice**

 **Chapter 2**

 _September 5_ _th_

 _The Watchtower_

 _3:10 P.M._

"Supergirl! Copy!"

J'onn J'onzz's fingers flew across the various monitors before him, desperately attempting to verify – or more properly, discredit – the readings the Watchtower's monitoring equipment was reporting. Standing firmly above the rest of the Justice League's headquarters in the circular monitoring station known as the Crow's Nest, J'onn mouth was a firm set, the red flashing warnings of the screen to his right taunting him.

Supergirl's comm activated, the hustle and bustle of battle filling J'onn's ears, offset by the strained breathing of the Girl of Steel. J'onn winced slightly. The crunching tear of steel resounded throughout the Crow's Nest. J'onn spared a brief second to glance at Supergirl's status screen. Her tracker had her pinged at the far end of the galaxy and her latest logs showed that MetaOps had her tracking down a rogue sect of Manhunters with Star Girl and Kyle Rayner.

"Busy J'onn!" she snapped, not impatiently. "Call back!"

Supergirl disconnected.

J'onn cursed, the stress of the situation robbing him of his normally cool, calm demeanor. J'onn waved Supergirl's status screen away, absently supposing it was probably a good thing she wasn't here right now. Upon further thought, it wasn't the brightest idea to assign her to this task anyway.

J'onn abandoned his verification attempts, dissatisfied with the results but accepting of them. He had quintuple checked the system and rebooted it twice. The results were terrifying and daunting but they were not incorrect.

J'onn closed the system check screens, centering the status windows. He keyed in a brief filter, eliminating the Leaguers who weren't currently available. Furthering the filtering of unavailable Leaguers, he eliminated those who weren't within a certain distance of the issue. The parameters of his search ate away at the options until only two Leaguers, two MetaOps members and one PhysicalOps member remained. One of the MetaOps members was actually the closest but J'onn was loath to make this information public to the rest of the League until it was absolutely necessary. Fulltime Leaguers were the only ones he trusted to give this mission to right now and, quite luckily, the only two available happened to be two of the Founding Seven.

Calling up their status screens, he initiated the call, merging it into one line. Diana Prince, Warrior Princess of Themyscira and the Wonder Woman answered first, her cultured and stern voice filtering through the Crow's Nest. Despite the intensity of the situation, J'onn found his nerves calming as she spoke. Diana always commanded such quiet awe it was difficult to be anything but calm when the fearsome woman was speaking.

"I'm here, J'onn." The Justice League's communications equipment was top of the line and did its job well but even it couldn't filter out all background noise. The undertone of wind that rushed around her voice was evidence she was flying. J'onn spared a brief glance at her status screen. Her tracker was pinging her moving south of Metropolis. He needed to stop her.

"Flash here!" The Scarlet Speedster quipped happily, the sudden interjection of his voice interrupting J'onn's immediate thought process. Barry had picked up only a few seconds after Diana, the slightest lack of breadth contaminating his chipper voice. His tracker was pinging him at multiple places across Central City. Dr. Palmer had yet to update the Speedster's tracking device to accommodate for Barry's newfound speed threshold. The poor computer program had a hard time keeping up with the Fastest Man Alive.

J'onn wasted no time, his voice urgently spilling out instructions as his hands flew across the keyboard. Diana was far closer than Barry was, but according to the Watchtower's best calculations, the Flash would reach the Metropolis apartment complex in seven minutes, a full four minutes before Wonder Woman. J'onn steadfastly repressed the urge to chew at his bottom lip. Both time intervals were the fastest available to the League right now but they both provided the perpetrator of this tragedy ample time to make a getaway.

"Superman's vital signs just bottomed out at these coordinates." J'onn was blunt but quick, simultaneously explaining the situation as he transmitted the location to his fellow Leaguers. Their status screens flared green, indicating a successful transfer of data to their communicators.

For once, Barry had no quick wit. J'onn observed as his tracker paused for a fraction of second, the Speedster halting long enough for it to confirm him to be in one spot, before it fritzed again, pinging him along the Eastern seaboard as he ran as fast as his speed would allow him – very fast indeed – towards the City of Tomorrow. J'onn sensed Barry would have no more to say on the matter.

Diana was another matter. J'onn could hear her sharp turn, the unnatural manipulation of high velocity winds whistling around her communicator as her tracker turned immediately northward again. The Wonder Woman's voice was strained as she clicked back into communications. "What's his status, J'onn?"

"Get to the coordinates, Diana," J'onn replied solemnly. He had dispelled Superman's status screen some time ago, the blinking red lights and warning symbols distracting him. The scans were absolute, the results indisputable. This was not a rescue mission.

"Dammit, J'onn! What's his status!?" Diana's voice turned savage, the hardened warrior of the Princess showing through. J'onn winced. His old friend was as equally terrifying as she was calming depending on the severity of the situation. It was no secret to many Leaguers but especially no secret to him that Diana had always harbored feelings beyond that of a battlefield compatriot with the Man of Steel. They had never been returned and she had respected that but even so the feelings remained, always an open wound that stung at her.

J'onn collapsed backwards into his chair, Wonder Woman and the Scarlet Speedster's status screens hovering holographically in front of him, bathing him in a spray of guilt and shame. He hadn't been a field agent since the very early days of the League. For a time he had taken over training of new MetaOps members but Black Canary and her pupil Conner Kent had since taken that over, leaving him in charge of planning and managing Justice League operations. His role was vital, he knew, but his oldest friend in the galaxy was lying dead in a dingy apartment complex in Metropolis and he was stuck in space.

Well aware that Barry was still on the line and that he wanted to help Superman as much as J'onn did, the Martian Manhunter acquiesced to Diana's request.

"Watchtower readings indicate the presence of pure Kryptonite," J'onn stated. The word 'pure' was important. Most Kryptonite on the market was a dilution of the pure substance – it was still powerful enough to severely weaken and, if they were exposed long enough, kill Kryptonians but such an outcome took quite a while. Pure Kryptonite was only held by four known entities – A.R.G.U.S. which had a small armory of weapons with Kryptonite power cells, supplied by the Man of Steel himself, S.T.A.R. Labs which possessed the substance for scientific research purposes, Bruce Wayne who had been gifted the substance by Superman as a show of trust, and Lex Luthor who consolidated billions in the substance for the sole purpose of using it to destroy, harm and otherwise agitate Earth's Kryptonian population.

"Luthor," Wonder Woman growled.

"Possibly," J'onn agreed. "Or it could be a skilled enough mercenary who acquired A.R.G.U.S. weapons."

"Ollie hasn't reported any A.R.G.U.S. break-ins," Barry chimed in for the first time since he had set out for Metropolis.

J'onn crinkled his nose, unwilling to concede that the Speedster was correct. Oliver Queen, one of the Founding Seven, operated out of Star City and he acted as A.R.G.U.S.'s liaison with the League. His best friend, John Diggle was director of the organization. Barry was right. If A.R.G.U.S. had lost any of their weaponized Kryptonite recently, the League would have known. J'onn was just loath to believe Alexander Luthor was behind this.

It wasn't so much that J'onn believed Luthor would defeat the League as it was that J'onn was positive the League could not defeat him. True, the man was not an especially fearsome physical foe – practically any member of the League could trounce him in or out of his mechanized suit in a straight fight – but combat with Luthor was seldom a physical thing. The League had long ago learned that a fight with Luthor always played out on the political field or the economic field. In both cases, the League lacked power or credibility. Their ability to combat evil went only so far as the law allowed them and, unfortunately, the law could often be bent with enough money – a resource Luthor was far from lacking in.

J'onn knew in his heart Luthor was behind this but the Martian prayed he was wrong. There would be no happy ending to this story if he was right.

"Thirty seconds," Barry stated, fishing J'onn from his thoughts.

"Three minutes," Diana supplemented. J'onn's brow furrowed in a not unpleasant manner. She was a minute ahead of schedule.

J'onn clicked back into communication. "Be careful, Barry. While it is likely Luthor is behind this –" a muttered growl came from Diana's line which J'onn ignored "– it is highly unlikely the man is doing his own dirty work. We have no idea what could be waiting for you."

"Diana's close behind, J'onn. I'll be fine."

J'onn winced at the Speedster's tone. Barry Allen was a man of supreme confidence that bordered on arrogance. He rarely took the situation he was in seriously unless it involved the saving of innocent lives and even then, there was little he didn't think he could handle on his own. The severity of this situation was affecting him. There was only firm determination in the normally quippy young man's voice.

"Watchtower is monitoring," J'onn muted his line with his usual signoff.

 _September 5_ _th_

 _Gleneagle Apartment Complex_

 _3:10 P.M._

Deathstroke tugged Clarent from the Man of Steel with a sickening _squelch_. The blade caught on the way out and Superman's flesh rose unnaturally with it, as if unwilling to let it go. Rose, still sitting on her knees from where she had doomed the bastion of good and decency, looked away. She listened as Deathstroke methodically wiped the blade clean, the silken cloth's smooth touch sounding like grating steel to Rose's ears.

This was…unfamiliar to her. She had killed many in her life and seen even more die. Her best friend in childhood had died in her arms, the victim of aggressive sexual abuse by a neighborhood gang and she had killed one of those very same gang members when she was eleven. As Ravager, she had taken the lives of men and women both good and evil – more commonly, the former – yet this feeling in her chest, the nausea in her stomach, the lightheadedness were all things she had never experienced. Was she…remorseful?

Rose looked again at the limp body of the Man of Steel. Her father had stepped back but he was still standing proudly over the Kryptonian, the blade hanging low by his side. The blood had been cleaned off but there was a red film across the entirety of it. Combined with the green glow of the Kryptonite it looked…unnatural. Rose looked away again.

What was it about this kill? She hadn't even been the one to do the deed. She had only acted as bait, using the man's intrinsic goodness against him and luring him into a trap that promised certain death. A grim smile graced Rose's face and she scoffed in her head. Yes, she was completely innocent in this affair.

Or perhaps she was just feeling fear. Fear the likes of which she had never felt in her life. There would be retribution for this. She had known that before she had taken the job but now reality was seeping back in as assuredly as the smoke the Man of Steel had rescued her from was. The League would know soon and there wouldn't be a place on Earth she or her father would be safe.

Oblivious to her daughter's inner struggle – or, more likely, uncaring of it – Deathstroke sheathed the sword on his back and looked to her. The mask obscured his features but there was a rare smile in his voice.

"Well done, Ravager."

Rose worried at her bottom lip and stood. She kept her eyes firmly straight, attempting to blot out her peripheral view of the blue and red suit that begged for her attention. Deathstroke stepped over him as if he were a foot mat. Rose was, frankly, surprised her father didn't just use the Man of Steel's chest to wipe the dirt and grime off his boots.

"The other half of our payment will be transferred to your private account as soon as Luthor delivers." He extended a hand to her.

She stared up at it, hesitant. She'd stood by her father through thick and thin, following him into danger that men twice her age would empty their stomachs at and it had all led her to here and now. What had happened in this room only moments ago, had changed her life for all the years to come – however few there may be – and she wasn't entirely certain she wanted to continue standing by the man before her. She was also still nauseous – though she was beginning to attribute at least half of that to the fumes of the fire she and her father were still standing in – and she was genuinely uncertain if she'd be able to stand up without hurling.

She took his hand – at the end of the day, for better or worse, it was the only hand life had ever extended her – and allowed him to pull her to her feet.

She quickly retreated to the safety of her glibness. "Great. I'll use it to buy a nice, windowless bunker. Somewhere nice. Jamaica, maybe."

"You're overreacting." He had released her hand the moment she'd stood up. The distant Slade Wilson had taken control again.

"I hear Nicaragua's pretty this time of year."

"Ravager –" Deathstroke never called her by her name in the mask.

"I always preferred a warmer climate but maybe somewhere more picturesque. Norway's got some beautiful mountains."

Deathstroke firmly – but not unkindly – grabbed her shoulders. She looked down at his gloved hands, not believing they were there. "Relax," he commanded. "The only evidence we were here is a stab wound through his heart. We get out now, ditch the armor and hide out for a couple days before hitching a ride out of the city. The League will never know we were involved."

It sounded sensible – almost possible. Rose didn't smile or even hope, but some small fraction of the waves of nausea assaulting her stomach receded. She looked into the whites of Deathstroke's mask, attempting to draw what little comfort she could from them. Perhaps he was right and everything would be fine.

A scarlet streak – crackling with electric yellow – zoomed into the room with such speed that it again blew the smoke to the adjacent wall. He stood there, resplendent in his red onesie, his lightning quick mind taking stock of the situation at a speed faster than the average super-computer. Checking her mental clock – following the shock of her and her father's actions, it had not stopped counting – she was honestly surprised it had taken him so long to get here. Six minutes and forty-eight seconds.

It's funny the idle thoughts that come to you in times of danger. Just now, Rose was thinking about how much the Scarlet Speedster's suit had changed in recent months. Until about half a year ago, it had been a very simply thing of elastic fabric that fit him snugly and looked more like idle winter wear than a real supersuit. Then had come the three month long incident known as the Rogues Revolution. Captain Cold had received a massive influx of funding from unknown persons – the Legion of Doom's current suspect was Eobard Thawn who had amassed billions using future knowledge of the stock market – and had banded Central City's Rogues together into a unified force, arming them with advanced weaponry and armor and locking down the city. The Flash had upgraded his suit to a sleek, armored, red alloy offset by golden lightning bolts and the famed white circle on his chest and he hadn't downgraded after the Revolution was ended.

Rose's second thought was much shorter. "Well so much for that." Whether that was addressed to her father's previously ironclad plan or her own naïve hopes, she wasn't sure.

"Deathstroke!" Flash growled menacingly, followed by a rather surprised, "Ravager?"

Rose wasn't sure why the Speedster was so surprised to see her. She hadn't done many jobs near Central City, granted but she was sure a few of her bigger jobs had earned the attention of the League – or her pride would like her to believe they had. Ravager had, had frequent altercations with Red Hood and his Outlaws – though her altercations with Red Hood were very different from her altercations with his Outlaws – and she knew that the grapevine wound back to Flash somehow. If it weren't for her uncontrollable terror, she'd be professionally insulted.

"Wonder Woman!" Flash activated his comm-link. "Pick up the pace! It's Deathst –!"

The Speedster was cut off by a series of small concussive explosions detonated in front of him, disorienting him for all of three seconds before his innate healing abilities brought him back into focus. Unfortunately for him, he was fighting Deathstroke and three seconds was more than time enough.

The Terminator crossed the divide in two and used his final second to slide tackle the speedster, his armored boot contacting with the Flash's ankle painfully, sending him sprawling to the ground. Only his newly acquired armor saved him from Deathstroke shattering it, but as it was the mercenary still managed a painful sprain. Deathstroke rolled, using his own momentum to propel him into a crouch. In a swift motion he drew a sharp dagger from his waist and plunged it towards the Speedster's heart.

Without the use of his right leg, Flash was unable to stand but his speed still worked and he managed to roll out from under the blow. Deathstroke's dagger plunged into the wood, eliciting a loud _CRACK!_ The Terminator growled and drew his gun, aiming for Flash's head.

Rose interrupted, grabbing the gun from her father's hand and hooking her free arm under his, heaving him up in one continuous motion. She flipped the weapon in her hand and slid it back into its holster on her father's hip before giving a halfhearted knock to the left side of his mask.

"We don't have time!" she snapped. "You heard him! Wonder Woman is almost here and it won't be long before he's up and running again. The odds are stacked! Let's use his injury while we can and get the fuck out of here before the Amazon intercepts us!"

Without waiting for an answer, she rushed out of the room, her white hair bouncing against her back as she ran.

Deathstroke, to his credit, only spared a single second to be infuriated by the thought of his daughter giving him orders. The rage quickly subsided, replaced by the cold clarity of knowing she was right and that if they didn't leave now, they'd soon have the whole League on top of them. There was also a very small part of him that felt a certain amount of pride in her for taking charge of the situation, though he'd never tell her that.

Stopping only to spare a brief, angry look at the Flash, he followed after his daughter.

 _September 5_ _th_

 _Gleneagle Apartment Complex_

 _3:22 PM_

Wonder Woman flew in through the same window Superman had, her ashen face robbing her of the usual grace she arrived with. Her eyes were, of course, immediately drawn to her oldest friend's still body but she took quick notice of the Flash's prone form. Nauseating fear clenched at her heart and she quickly rushed to his side and falling to her knees beside him. Her sword, hanging at her side, drug across the ground as she hefted the Speedster's upper body, cradling his head against her chest and shaking him.

"Barry!" she cried, her voice thick with worry. "Barry!"

The speedster coughed and cracked a small smile. "All it takes is a sprained ankle to get this much attention? Damn."

Wonder Woman rolled her eyes and scowled, dropping him roughly back to the floor without remorse. "Ass."

"Agh! Thanks," he groaned, propping himself up on his arms. He eyed his foot speculatively and looked into Wonder Woman's eyes. "I'm sorry, Diana. Deathstroke slide-tackled me. I couldn't chase after them."

"Them?" she echoed harshly.

Barry nodded. "Ravager was here to. Not sure what her role was, but she was clearly accomplice."

Wonder Woman growled. "Add her to the list then. Deathstroke doesn't act without a backer. This was clearly Luthor's doing."

Neither of them had yet to truly look at the body and neither wanted to be the first. They continued to look intensely into each other's eyes as they spoke.

"There's no way to prove it, though," Barry reminded her regretfully. "Luthor will have covered his tracks."

Wonder Woman breathed deeply through her nose. "We'll deal with Luthor," she promised. "When we can, we'll deal with him. But Deathstroke and his daughter are assuredly within reach. Them first."

Barry shrugged and wiggled his foot experimentally. Only a mild pain responded to him. He could more than likely walk on it now, although running was a few minutes off. "Well, you've got my vote."

Wonder Woman smiled a sad smile and squeezed his shoulder in thanks. Barry smiled back at her but it was weighed down, his eyes dark with pain and remorse.

"We have to tell the League, Diana. _You_ have to tell the League."

Wonder Woman breathed through her nose again, but this time it was shaky and uncertain. She nodded stiffly, a short and pained nod as if the motion greatly pained her. "I know," she whispered and yet she said again, even softer, "I know."

Diana Prince, Princess of Themyscira and the Wonder Woman stood and, for the first time, looked upon the body of her trusted friend. The yellow and blues of his suit were stained a deep red and his eyes were still open, frozen in shock and pain. To look at him was agony but she could hardly have the gall to inform the League if she herself could not accept it.

Unbidden, her arm rose and activated her comm-link. "J'onn patch me into League channels." Her voice was distant and faraway, stony and monotonous.

"Which ones?" J'onn responded quickly, his tone urgent and exuding a nervous need to perform whatever task she asked of him as quickly as possible.

"All of them," she replied."

"This is Wonder Woman on all League channels." The stony Amazonian Princesses' voice cracked as she addressed her comrades. This was going out to everyone; full members, part time helpers and operatives of all rank. Everyone was hearing this. "Superman is dead."

All at once the world stilled. Bruce Wayne dropped his glass, a truly shocked expression on his face as he exchanged a look with his crushed, adoptive son. Kid Flash stumbled, skidding across the pavement, unable to comprehend what he'd heard. Green Arrow missed his shot and Black Canary's cry faltered, tapering off. Aquaman rose from his throne, dazed and disoriented. Superboy collapsed in the hallway, eliciting cries of shock and worry from his classmates and halfway cross the galaxy, Supergirl screamed in agonized denial.

And then, all at once, the world resumed and an unsurmountable mountain of pain and loss fell upon the hearts of every superhero on the Earth and beyond.

"In his –" she hesitated "– absence, I am acting Chairwoman of the League and I am issuing an immediate recall of all operatives, active or inactive, affiliated or not – yes, that means you and your band of Outlaws, Red Hood – to the Watchtower. This is non-negotiable, no exceptions, no excuses. Abandon all current assignments big or small unless an innocent life is on the immediate brink of death and report to the Watchtower. Wonder Woman out."

They would listen. Many would grumble or shake their heads at having to abandon assignments but they would come nonetheless. Her authority was, in actuality, not formally sanctioned. Superman had been the Chairman by unanimous decision – unless you counted his vote which had quite literally read 'anyone else please' – but his successor had never been named. Whether this had been out of Clark's inability to think a negative thought or out of everyone else's inability to believe Clark would ever die, Wonder Woman didn't know. She did know that Superman had privately tried to convince Bruce to take the mantle if ever the Man of Steel should pass but that he had declined, stating that the roll wasn't a fit for him. The issue had never been brought up again but Wonder Woman found it unlikely anyone would argue.

Behind her, Barry stood up with a groan, experimentally hopping from one foot to the other. He rotated it hesitantly and beamed at her. "Nothing a little R&R can't fix, huh?"

Wonder Woman, now seemingly entranced with Superman's lifeless body, hummed non-committedly in response.

Barry attempted another smile, although she couldn't see it with her back turned. "It's always weird hearing someone's voice with your ears and through the comm," he chuckled half-heartedly, watching her closely for any kind of response. She offered none.

Barry sighed and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. She turned and hugged him fiercely and tightly, burying her face in his neck. There were no sobs or shaking shoulders – Diana was hardly the type – but she was in pain the likes of which he had never felt and prayed he never would feel. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed back, his face for once a grim mask.

Barry clicked his comm on. "Beam us up, J'onn."

Despite the gravity of the situation, Barry did manage to crack a genuine smile at the long suffering sigh he received from the Martian on the other end. Since Victor and Dr. Palmer had introduced teleportation to the League, Barry had quickly latched onto a number of Star Trek jokes he still made to this day. J'onn had hated them since day one.

"Ten seconds," J'onn informed them, denying Barry any more humored joy.

Diana sniffed, the only real physical indication of her mindset and stepped back from Barry. She gave him a genuine, heartfelt smile which he returned full force, before turning and crouching down next to the fallen hero. Gently, as a mother might cradle their child, she lifted him from the ground, trying very hard not to focus on how his head limply fell back against her arm.

The twinkling light of the Watchtower's teleporter began to shine around Barry, enveloping him within moments. Barry disappeared in an instant, leaving her alone with her dead friend's body.

"Ten seconds, Diana," J'onn warned her.

A glint from across the room caught her eye. Diana scrutinized it. "Hold for a moment, J'onn," she spoke into her comm-link. She set Clark down as gently as possible and moved across the room, crouching down to inspect the mystery item.

It was a dagger, half embedded in the charred floorboard. The blade was a silver steel, polished to reflective perfection. The handle was a blend of orange and black, half of a full face mask engraved into it just above the blade. Diana plucked it from the floor and turned it over in her hands. Were it not for the all-consuming fury she was feeling, she would have laughed. Supervillains were so dedicated to their individual aesthetic.

"Diana?" J'onn hedged over the comm-link. "Everything alright?"

Diana hooked the dagger onto her belt and stood up, activating her comm-link with a tap. "I'm ready, J'onn." She quirked a small smile. "Beam me up."

She was rewarded with another agitated mutter before a brief sensation of nausea overcame her. It passed quickly, however, and the white light of the teleporter dissipated in a flurry. Where once there had been a burnt out, abandoned apartment building, was now the shiny, metallic interior of the Watchtower's Hub.

Wonder Woman glanced around her. Already a vast percentage of the League had arrived, some suited up and others not. Red Arrow and Artemis stood to her left, he in armor and her in her school uniform. Arsenal wasn't with them but that was hardly a surprise. To her right were Zatanna and Doctor Fate. The Lord of Order's face was inscrutable but Zatanna's was awash with pain. Kid Flash and Jesse Quick were both wearing their civilian clothes. Jesse was crying heartily on Wally's shoulder. Superboy was standing on his own, staring out into the blackness of space and gripping the railing so hard it was bending. She spotted the Bat-Family just beneath the balcony, although Orphan wasn't yet present. She was surprised to see the Red Hood standing beside them. The intricacies of Bruce's adopted family never failed to confuse her but there he was nevertheless, his arm around a crushed Dick Grayson in a show of brotherly solidarity. And there was Batman, standing alongside J'onn, Green Arrow and Black Canary in the balcony above the Hub, awaiting the three other members of the Founding Seven. The glass window around the Conference Room was normally opaque, a one way mirror so as to prevent any prying lip readers from knowing what was being discussed by the Founding Seven in their private discussions. Now, though, Bruce had left it clear, a silent request for her and Barry to join them.

The rest of the League and its affiliates had not yet arrived – she knew a few were in deep space and would take a while to get here – but they would be here soon.

No one called out to her or spoke to her as she walked silently and stoically, the Flash behind her, towards the Balcony. They were at a loss for words, unaware of what to say or do. They only looked on in abject horror, uncertainty written across their faces.

Wonder Woman grimaced. She knew exactly what was to come. She knew the League's next step and she knew exactly how to go about it.

There was much work to be done.

 _September 5_ _th_

 _The Watchtower_

 _3:47 PM_

There had been a moment of silence. Several, in fact. The balcony above the Watchtower's Hub was where the League periodically met to discuss and debate the issues of the day and how best to go about remedying them. Assignments were handed out, reprimands delivered and all manner of important decisions made around it. Originally, the circular table had only been large enough to accommodate the Founding Seven, back in the days when they had been the only Leaguers. As time went on and more heroes joined the fold, the table was continuously rebuilt and expanded to make room for them. Now, it was large enough to seat all eighteen members of the Justice League as well as the two Captains of both Physical and MetaOps.

Diana had laid Clark on the table, his body stretched out long enough to occupy the desk space of both her and Bruce's seats. She had closed his eyes and folded his hands very particularly over the 'S' so as to hide the stab wound. It was…discomforting to see such a blemish on the Man of Steel's chest. Standing by the window, Bruce found it odd that he wasn't near so disturbed by the fact that his friend was dead, as he was by the fact that his friend had a wound.

For the time being, the balcony had been closed off, the Conference Room occupied only by the Seven – now Six. Of them, J'onn was the only one sitting, leaning back in his chair, his chin resting thoughtfully on his hand. He seemed to be the most aware of the situation around him, his fellow Founding Members lost in thought and pain.

Diana and Bruce were leaning against the window of the balcony – Bruce had turned it opaque and shut the door after she and Barry had entered. The Founding Seven, in all honesty, rarely had private meetings anymore. If they did, it was usually to discuss internal matters such as leaks or reprimands that they couldn't allow the rest of the League to hear until a later date. The Conference Room was rarely sealed like this anymore.

For her part, Diana was leaning her back against the window, her gaze lifelessly resting on Clark's still form. Bruce, on the other hand, had his back to the rest of the Seven, his gray eyes darker, his face a grimmer mask than usual. Quite unusually, he was not wearing his mask, the famous cowl instead sitting harmlessly on the Conference table near to Superman's feet. Despite this, Diana infuriatingly still couldn't tell what the man was thinking. Mask or no, Bruce Wayne was a closed book.

Oliver, his arm wrapped tightly around a silently sobbing Dinah, looked up and across the room, catching Diana's eyes. "What's the plan, Wonderful?"

Diana sighed, shaking her head just slightly. Oliver's nickname for her was so unimaginative and so 'Oliver'. Clearing her throat, she called to J'onn, "What do we have on Deathstroke and Ravager?"

J'onn didn't look at her as he waved a shrug in her direction. "Nothing. CCTV keeps track of them for a few blocks but they ducked into an alley south of the building and vanished. Probably took the sewers. They're in the wind." He sounded very defeated by the short report.

Barry spoke from his position across the room. He had sullenly taken up residence against the wall opposite the rest of the Seven. "What about Luthor? He'll be transferring a payment, right? Probably wirelessly. Have Ray monitor the communications in and out."

"A billion dollar corporate headquarters?" Dinah sniffed, sitting up. Her moment of grief over, her famed steel returned to her spine. Her voice was cold. Oliver petted the back of her head comfortingly. She gave no physical indication of thanks but her eyes were soft. "Ray can't monitor every communication, Barry."

"Luthor's office, then," Barry countered. "The payment will come from there. Ray can keep track of those communications."

"No, he can't," Bruce interjected, his back still turned. "Luthor's office is on its own server. Its communications are separate from the rest of LexCorp. Dr. Palmer had no entry into the office."

"How do you know that?" Oliver asked.

His back still turned, his gaze steadfastly pointed outwards, Bruce said, "Dr. Palmer and I attempted to collect incriminating evidence on Luthor some time ago. He couldn't get in."

"When was this?" Diana asked, an edge to her voice.

Bruce was unfazed. "Shortly after Luthor's takeover of the Legion of Doom."

Barry shook his head. "Three years ago," he scoffed. "Always with the secrets, Bruce."

No one else spoke, but the faces of the Seven told of their agreement. Bruce's famed "Boxes" in the Batcave were a point of great contrite within the League. For all they done together, many of the League still doubted whether or not Bruce truly trusted them. Some were positive that he didn't. Often times, the various Leaguers could forget and go about business as usual but then would come a stark reminder that the only man Bruce Wayne truly trusted was Bruce Wayne.

"Consult with Jason," Bruce suggested. "He is familiar with Ravager. He knows her. Her tactics, her habits. He may very well be able to help you find her."

Diana frowned. "I wasn't aware the Outlaws had so much experience with Ravager."

"They don't," Bruce replied simply. "Jason does."

Oliver, who still spoke fairly often to Roy – Jason's best friend – and was more aware of the situation than the others, smirked and said, "More experience than you might think, in fact."

For the first time, Bruce turned, a warning look in his eyes as he leveled his gaze at Oliver. Still smirking, the Emerald Archer mimed zipping his lips. Bruce turned away again. Diana surveyed the interaction with curiosity.

"So the plan is to find Deathstroke by finding Ravager, apprehend them and throw them into the most secure hole we can find to rot for the rest of their natural lives?" Barry summed up, sounding darkly happy at the thought.

Diana sighed through her nose, something dark flitting across her eyes. She nodded slowly, lightly tapping the hilt of Deathstroke's dagger. "Something along those lines," she confirmed. She missed the glance Bruce threw her from the corner of his eye.

Barry nodded. "I like it. Simple. Easy to follow."

"Someone needs to tell, Lois," Bruce commented to Diana, bluntly saying exactly who he thought should.

A weight crashed down upon Diana's shoulders. The truth was in the chaos of what had occurred, she had not even thought of Clark's fiancé, waiting happily and ignorantly at the Daily Planet for her superhero to return and sweep her off her feet. Bruce was right, of course, it did need to be her. She and Lois had developed quite a friendship – the intrepid reporter had graciously overlooked Diana's repressed feelings for her fiancé, an act for which Diana was eternally grateful – and she would be remiss if she didn't tell the woman herself.

"I'll go," she promised him.

"Address the League, first. You called them here. They're expecting something." That said, Bruce turned sharply enough to send his cape fluttering and he began to walk purposely towards the door, deviating enough to grab his cowl.

"What about you?" Diana called after him.

"Someone has to tell the Kents," he growled back over his shoulder, fitting the cowl onto his head with practiced ease as he spoke.

"You're not going dressed like that, are you?" Oliver joked. Bruce didn't slow, unlocking the door and disappearing down the stairs. Oliver looked around to see four faces focused on him in mild disappointment. "What? It's not my fault. The guy needs to learn a sense of humor."

 _September 5_ _th_

 _The Watchtower_

 _4:03 PM_

What little whispering there had been in the Hub Room of the Watchtower quieted instantly upon the Bat's descent down the stairs. Every bit as intimidating as ever, he was still a welcome sight to the faces young and old of the League and its affiliates. Despite the total lack of any executive powers, the rest of the League still looked upon any member of the Founding Seven with reverence, treating them as their de-facto leaders. Such a sense of authority was only heightened by the remaining Six sealing the Conference Room for a private chat regarding the day's horrid events.

Bruce spoke quickly and assuredly, never pausing in his walk as he moved towards his adopted children.

"Wonder Woman will address you shortly regarding the League's direction." He finished his statement just in front of his two oldest, Dick and Jason.

"What happened up there?" Dick asked immediately, keeping his voice low. He had learned Bruce's queues long ago. His father wanted this to be quiet.

"A brief discussion on what to do about Deathstroke and Ravager. How to find them. One too many jokes from the Emerald Archer." Bruce's voice was irritated.

"Just one?" Jason asked glibly. Surprising the young man, Bruce turned an intense gaze onto him.

The Caped Crusader spoke quickly and bluntly. "As it stands right now, we have no real way of finding Ravager and her father. Diana will speaking with you regarding certain habits Ravager may have. I truly sorry to put you in this position, Jason and I _understand_ but I am asking you to please help."

The mask was on, Bruce's gray eyes shrouded by the ethereal whites of his cowl, but Jason could hear the tenderness, the slight pleading behind his father's voice. He and Bruce had never had a good relationship – particularly not after the Lazarus Pit – but he could see the honest desperation in his face. And, in the end, Bruce knew very well what it was like to be in his shoes. Selina Kyle haunted Bruce even now and it was because of her the Bat had allowed Jason to see Rose unimpeded.

Hesitantly, regretfully, Jason nodded a stiff nod. "I will. Just…promise me. Prison, yeah? Nothing worse."

"Never," Bruce promised. "Never worse. Not on my watch."

Jason nodded again, less stiff and more genuine. Dick looked curiously between them, aware he was missing vital information but content not to pry. For once, Jason was going along with Bruce without argument or physical combat. Dick would do anything to make it last as long as possible.

"As for you," Bruce addressed Dick. "I have somewhere to be, somewhere important so be my ears today. Listen closely to whatever Diana has to say."

"What's got you worried?" Dick asked knowingly.

"I don't know," Bruce answered honestly. "A bad feeling. A hunch. One I pray doesn't come to pass. Keep a close eye on her."

With no more to say, Bruce turned on his heel and stalked towards the teleporter, his cap dragging along the ground behind him. Stopping to key in his destination, Bruce stepped onto the pad and disappeared in a flurry of white light.

"What do you think he's afraid of?" Jason asked.

"I don't know," Dick echoed his father. "But when has one of Bruce's hunches ever been wrong?"

"Well," Jason said diplomatically, "he had a pretty strong hunch I was dead."

Dick sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You're never gonna let that go are you?"

 _September 5_ _th_

 _Kent Farm_

 _4:05 PM_

Teleportation had been a major breakthrough for the League when Barry and Ray Palmer had unveiled it. It allowed for quick transport of Leaguers and Operatives to places of interest in times of danger or disaster and an equally quick exit from danger in certain conditions. It did, however, have its limitations. The technology didn't allow for teleportation to just anywhere. Instead, there was a master pad in the Watchtower linked to several pads across the globe. However, when teleporting from the Master Pad, one could only arrive at one of the Sub Pads spread across the globe. In addition, a Leaguer or Operative needed to be within a certain radius – a mile and a half to be exact – of a Sub-Pad for the Watchtower to be able to pick them up. Most of the major American cities – New York, Metropolis, Gotham, Central City and others – all had multiple pads hidden in them so as to cover the entire city and provide a fast escape for anyone within the city. Most every major city in other countries – Paris, Dublin, London, Rome, Berlin, etc. – had at least one pad in them, usually more. It wasn't so much that the League didn't have as many assignments in those parts of the world – if anything they had more – but with most Leaguers based in America that was the priority and, in addition, the pads were incredibly expensive.

It had taken Bruce and Dinah – Oliver didn't have a clue how to do anything financial – weeks of clever accounting manipulation to hide the astronomical amounts of money they'd had to move to make the pads.

There was one particular pad, however, very far from the rest of civilization and incredibly removed from practically any evil whatsoever, that the League just accepted as a necessity. It was located in Jonathan Kent's abandoned barn.

Having long since revealed his identity to the rest of the League, Clark Kent had expounded on countless stories of his youth and how spectacular his parents were at supporting, loving and assisting him. After the secret had been outed, the Kents had discovered more than one superhero – young and old – in their barn, having quickly teleported out of danger and to the one place they knew no one would look for them. Those heroes had returned with stories of the Kents patching them up, helping them rest and usually providing them with a baked good to take home and before long, the Kents became the League's official comforters. It was a role they gladly took on and they were eternally thankful the League had installed the pad so many years ago.

Today, though, it wasn't Clark or Kara or Connor who came through looking for a hug and a place to crash or to reminisce about the time Clark upended a tractor during a temper-tantrum. It wasn't Dick Grayson coming for advice on how to propose to Barbara – he'd been asking for two years and Martha was beginning to get exasperated it hadn't happened yet – or Damian Wayne coming to play fetch with Krypto. Wally and Jesse didn't show up looking for counselling on how to get past their latest argument – Jonathan usually just told Wally to let it go. And the Outlaws weren't there for one of Martha's delicious home cooked meals – the only ones they ever really got.

Instead, Bruce Wayne, resplendent in his black and gray armor appeared, his head hung low, his shoulders bunched and a heavier weight than usual on his back. Jonathan was waiting for him – Barry had installed an alarm that sounded in the house whenever someone was incoming after the third time a PhysicalOps operative had nearly bled out on the pad because no one had been there to receive them – and he took quick stock of Bruce's more-depressed-than-usual demeanor.

"Bruce?" Jonathan called to him gently. "You okay, son? You aren't hurt are you?"

Jonathan didn't think he was. Alfred was a top notch medical officer – he had been a trauma medic in the Royal Army and had received plenty of hands on experience patching up Bruce and his kids over the years – so he didn't think Bruce was here for that. Of the entire League, Bruce was one of those who cherished and loved the Kents the most but who rarely visited. Martha and Jonathan both privately believed it was because they were too painful of a reminder of his own parents but they kept it silent and welcomed him with open arms whenever he did visit.

Bruce looked up – it looked like it had required quite a bit of effort there was such a weight on him – and levelled a firm gaze at the aged Kent patriarch. Jonathan couldn't see beyond the mask, but Bruce's mouth was set into a firmer grimace than usual. Reaching up, Bruce activated the release to his cowl. The connecting segments opened with a hiss and Bruce slid the ever-angry cowl from his head. Now free of the confines of the mask, Bruce again looked at Jonathan, a pained look in his eyes. "Mr. Kent," he tried and then tried again, "Mr. Kent, I –"

Jonathan had been supporting members of the League for a long time. If one counted his raising of Clark – and Jonathan usually did – he'd been doing it for thirty three years. He had developed a sense long ago that warned him when one of his son's compatriots was about to deliver bad news. Jonathan had no idea what Bruce was about to tell him, but he knew he wouldn't let him deliver his message like this.

"Now hold right there, Bruce," the elder man interrupted, his voice dripping with southern hospitality and edged with fatherly steel. "I'm sure whatever you have to say is important –"

"Mr. Kent," Bruce tried to cut him off but Jonathan gave no ground.

"No," he said firmly. "You can tell us, both me and Martha, after you've gotten out of that stuffy outfit of yours, had a hot shower and let go of just a little bit of that tension."

"Mr. Kent," Bruce tried again.

"Get to it, Bruce," Jonathan ordered, using the same voice he'd often used to send Clark to his room in his younger days. "I'll gather Martha up, we'll wait for you in the living room and then we can discuss this."

If it was possible, Bruce's shoulders sagged even more. "You'll want to hear this, Mr. Kent," Bruce said lowly.

Something about the way Bruce said it tipped Jonathan off. A cold, hard ball of fear – the kind of visceral fear only a parent can feel – nestled into his stomach and for the first time in a while, a grim look passed across the kind man's face. Bruce Wayne was the hardiest, most firm man Jonathan knew. That wasn't always a good thing –Jonathan had seen him close himself off more times than he could count. But he was a man who could be relied upon. Something, though, had crushed him and a painful thought had pierced Jonathan's head.

"No," Jonathan's voice wavered but he said again, firmer, "No, I don't think I'll want to hear it any more than you'll want to say it. But if it must be said, it'll be said under better conditions than in this old barn. You go and change, son. Then we'll talk."

Without waiting for any kind of response from the young man, Jonathan turned and left the barn, walking in the direction of his home. Maybe it was the fatherly tone of command or perhaps, more likely, it was Bruce's own reluctance to break the news, but the Bat obeyed, trudging after the elder man. The sun was still high in the sky, but it was in its decline and the sky was beginning to color, bright oranges and subtle pinks flying across the open expanse of blue like ribbons.

The two men made quite a sight, Jonathan in his work clothes and Bruce in his combat armor. The Dark Knight's cape drug across the ground, the brown dirt coloring the black of his cape as he walked. Jonathan entered the house first and, ever the kind host, held it open for Bruce. They exchanged no more words, but Jonathan gestured to the stairs in a silent command. Cowl in hand, Bruce walked up the stairs and found his way to the bathroom. Stripping from his armor in such a tight space was difficult but Bruce had been in tighter situations – figuratively and literally – so he managed it, carefully stacking the armor pieces and cape in a very specific pattern on the back of the toilet.

The shower would have been relaxing were it not for the weight of the upcoming discussion but Bruce would admit that even if it didn't ease his mind, it did release a little of the tension in his muscles. Some fifteen minutes later – he had lingered – Bruce climbed out of the shower to discover that Martha, having received a quick explanation from her husband, had laid out some of Clark's clothes outside the door. Bruce picked them up gingerly, running his hands over the flannel and denim. He and Clark had been of a similar build – Clark's shoulders had been a bit broader – so the clothes fit comfortably and with all other options expended, Bruce bit the bullet and headed downstairs.

He was greeted by hesitant but genuine smiles from the Kents. Bruce had never been all that good at smiling even under normal circumstances but he gave it his best shot and it seemed as if they appreciated the effort. The elder couple were in a weathered and worn loveseat. Bruce sat across from them in a large, cushy armchair. He had considered many ways to go about telling them during his shower – though now his mind was empty of them all – but in the end he knew there was only one way to. Bruce had only ever known one way to do things. Directly and bluntly.

"About an hour and a half ago, someone detonated several bombs in an empty apartment building in Metropolis," Bruce began, his tone monotonous. "They were clever. Placed them carefully enough to make it look like a gas explosion. It was presumed abandoned. The fire department arrived, but they were there mainly to keep the fire from spreading to neighboring buildings. Clark heard a scream, though – or a plea for help, or something I don't know – from inside and he flew in to help whoever it was to get out."

Martha traded a worried, scared look with Jonathan and edged closer to him on the couch. Her hair was done up in a tight, graying bun. The frightened frown on her face looked unnatural. Bruce was so used to seeing her with a radiant smile.

Bruce breathed in a shaky breath.

"He was ambushed."

Martha clenched Jonathan's arm tightly and painfully. The elder man's brow crinkled in pained expectancy.

Bruce breathed out a shaky breath. He looked up into the couple's eyes. "Clark is –" he tried and then tried again, "He's gone."

The Kents' world shattered. Their son – their invincible, untouchable, pure son – was gone? How? Why? It wasn't possible. It just couldn't be. There was a mistake, Jonathan was sure of it. Adrift in a sea of powerful denial while Martha sobbed loudly against him, Jonathan gazed glassily around the room, not taking anything in. Bruce looked away.

Slowly and very hesitantly, Jonathan reclaimed himself, dragging himself out of the deep hole of fatherly pain. He looked hard at Bruce who, captivated by the man's gaze, raised his eyes to him again. "Wh…who?" he stuttered.

Bruce briefly considered not telling him. What good would it do, after all? Clark was gone. Knowing the name of the man who had done it wouldn't change that and it wasn't as if Jonathan could do anything. But Bruce remembered a time – what felt like a lifetime ago – when he had been in the opposite of Jonathan's shoes. He remembered stumbling, untrained and unprepared, through Gotham's underbelly crying out for the name of the man who had taken his parents from him. "Deathstroke," he answered. "And his daughter, though we're uncertain of the extent to which she was involved."

Jonathan nodded, unsure of why he had really asked. What was he to do? He was an old man, far from his prime and ignorant of the nuances of his son's superhero world. Dick had told him about Deathstroke before – many times, in fact. He had been a major adversary of the League's PhysicalOps division. A world class assassin who was a good match even for Batman and who had laid waste to every PhysicalOps member at least once. There was nothing Jonathan could do. Still though, the aggressive part of him felt happy he knew the name of the man who'd taken his son from him.

Martha shifted beside him and raised her head from his shoulder. Her hair had frayed, a few strands having been thrown out of place by her wracking sobs. Her eyes were red and splotchy. She sniffed once and swallowed. "Where is he?" Martha asked through her tears. "Where is Clark?"

"The Watchtower," Bruce answered gently. "I felt it better to tell you first, than to show you. I'll bring him to you as soon as possible so you can make arrangements."

Martha nodded at once and Jonathan assumed she thanked Bruce but he didn't hear her, the world having faded. There was no noise where once there had been Bruce's uneven breathing and Martha's cries. He was no longer in his living room, the warm, rustic wood replaced with searing, white light. Where he was, he didn't know but he was very far away from his wife and his young friend. Then, all at once the white light took shape, molding into the huddled masses of a great city, their arms stretched upwards in joyous praise and heartwarming hope. Then another city and another and another, all with their arms stretched to the sky above them. And above them all, high in the sky, Jonathan saw his son.

But it wasn't his son. Clark Kent, his little man, was the twenty year old who had left the farm for an education in Metropolis. He was the fresh faced seventeen year old in worn flannel and faded denim who had once wrestled a runaway cow to the ground with his bare hands. He was the fourteen year old who had strapped a plow to his shoulders because he thought the horse could use a break. He was the ten year old who had spent all night baking – and burning – cookies for his mother the night before her birthday. He was the six year old who had thrown a temper tantrum because he couldn't have a dog and had thrown his bed throw the wall. His son was the little boy they had pulled from a burning ship and taken home.

The man above these people now, filling their lives with light and their hearts with hope wasn't Clark Kent, his son. It was Superman, the hero. Jonathan looked around him, at the sheer scope of the world looking up at the man with the red 'S' on his chest and wondered about them. What would they do without him? What would become of a world without Superman?

All at once he was back in his living room, Martha on his arm and Bruce across from him. He looked at his wife mournfully and at the young man across from him firmly. "No," he said, his voice strong again for the first time that evening.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. "Mr. Kent?"

Jonathan sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Clark," Jonathan tried. He had made his decision, of course, but that didn't make it any easier to say. "Clark shouldn't be buried here."

"Jonathan!" Martha protested, pulling away from him.

"No, Martha," Jonathan said, more firmly. He looked intensely at Bruce. "We loved him, Bruce. He was our son. He was ours. He came into our lives in a time when we needed him. We couldn't have kids of our own and there he was, falling from the sky like the angel he was, like it was meant to be. But when he put on that suit, when he showed the world there was a better way, he became a beacon. A beacon of hope and good and light. He stopped being ours, Bruce."

"Jonathan," Martha said again, warningly this time.

"Martha, stop," Jonathan turned to her. He grabbed at her hands and held them softly. "You know I'm right, sweetie. All the good he's done. All the lives he's saved. The world's a better place because of _him_. And yeah, it's still got its problems but it always will. And the problems of today? They're nothing compared to the problems we'll have if they don't get to say goodbye to him."

"He's my son," she cried. "He's my son, I can't just let him go!"

"I know!" he exclaimed in return. "And I can't either, Martha, I never can! I'll never let him go. But how many times did Clark put the needs of others ahead of his own. How many opportunities did he lose when he was young with girls and friends because an innocent person needed help? How many times was he willing to expose himself if it meant saving a life? How many times has he sacrificed his own good for the good of others? Martha, we can't dishonor him like this. How could we ever look at ourselves again if we didn't do, just this once, what he did every day of his life?"

Martha didn't say anything. Her bottom lip quivered, whether to cry or to try and speak he didn't know. But she didn't pull away, only sinking her head and remaining quiet.

Loathe to interrupt the couple as he was, Bruce interjected softly. "What are you saying, Mr. Kent? What are you…suggesting?"

Jonathan shook his head and shrugged. "Not me. If I had it my way, he'd get a comfortable oak box and nice patch of sunny land –" Martha let out a little sob – "but them? They loved him. A monument, a statue, a day of the year dedicated to him. They'll think of something. But it has to be them."

Bruce leaned into his hand, lost in thought. He hadn't considered it, in all honesty. Clark had been larger than life but at the same time universally humble. He would balk at the idea of a statue. He would find it surprising anyone would bother to take the time to mourn him. Because to Clark, everything he had ever done wasn't for the fame of the attention or any of that. He had done it simply because he believed he should.

"I'll see what I can do," Bruce promised.

 _September 6_ _th_

 _Rose's Apartment_

 _5:19 AM_

Usually, a return to her apartment was accompanied by a soft sigh of release. When crossing the threshold into this peaceful world of pretend normalcy, the problems of her odd career choice melted away. It was as if there were no out-standing contracts that needed to be dealt with on time lest she lose clientele and a heap of money. There were no obsessive, sluttily dressed superheroines gunning – or cross-bowing or whatever – for her. Even her father didn't trouble her, the only reminder of him a thick computer she could lock out of sight and not think about. And all of that paled in comparison to Jason's arms around her, the both of them sleeping peacefully together, pretending for a few hours they were just a young couple making a go at it in the big bad world. That was all 'usually', though. 'Usually' felt so far away right now. She'd give anything to feel Jason's embrace at the moment. There was nowhere in the world she felt safer – not that she'd admit that to him, of course.

This time climbing through her window brought her no reprieve. It was disconcerting, if she was being honest. She was so used to the sudden and pleasurable loss of stress she felt when entering her home, she was taken aback by its absence. Rose stood at her full height, surveying the room with the same paranoid intensity she had surveyed the street below, all the while hating she was still feeling as paranoid as she was.

As far as she or her father were aware, the League had lost them when they'd pulled their disappearing act in the alley a few blocks from the Apartment Complex. They'd changed as quickly as possible – never stopping while they did – and had come back up roughly a mile from the alley they'd entered the sewers through. That had been hours ago and they'd instantly split up, assuring the other they'd meet on the outskirts of the city and flee the country from there. Slade wanted to hide out until dark, well aware the vast majority of Metropolis's mainstay superheroes operated during the day. Rose wanted to stop by her apartment. So here she was, her white hair tied up in a thick, unruly ponytail, a green baseball cap on her head and a Def Leppard shirt on. She had a duffel bag thrown over her shoulder, most of its space occupied by her armor and weapons but there was room enough for the things she wanted to collect. There were a few clothes she had stored here that had sentimental value, the laptop, of course and – though she hadn't told her father – a picture of her and Jason.

Rose moved purposefully towards her room, her head constantly on a swivel, checking every nook and cranny of the room. There was something off about her apartment, she just knew it. Something was tickling at her spine, screaming at her that some tiny, minute detail about her apartment had been thrown off and that she should be on edge because of it. She nudged her door open – unwilling to make any large amount of noise – her muscles tense and poised for attack. She chided herself for her overdramatic paranoia. Her room, exactly like the rest of her apartment, was dark and quiet and peaceful.

Rose paused halfway to her bed.

Her room was exactly like the rest of her house.

The door closed behind her. Rose dropped the bag, pivoting on her right heel and swinging her left foot in a wide roundhouse kick. Someone caught her by the ankle with a spare hand – she was affronted whoever it was had stopped her so easily – and with the other leaned over to flip the light on. For the first time in nearly six days, Rose relaxed, her muscles loosening even as Jason still held her left foot aloft.

"You need to work on your variety, babe," Jason commented, letting her foot go and allowing her to stand properly. "The roundhouse is always your go to when you're caught off guard."

"Which is rarely," she defended, brushing imaginary dirt off her shirt. "I have variety enough."

Jason shrugged. "I saw you tense up," he commented. "What gave me away?"

A small smile played across her lips. "The house," she told him. "It was a disaster the last time I was here."

Jason almost chuckled. "Well," he smirked, "we finally know what it takes to get me to clean."

The levity of the situation vanished, replaced by a crushing weight of reality. She almost kicked him for having ruined the moment. It had been the first time her stomach had settled in a week. Jason, seeing her immediate withdrawal, grabbed her and took her into a firm embrace. Rose didn't cry – she couldn't remember the last time she had – but she clutched to him tightly, her breath uneven.

"Where are you two heading?" Jason asked innocently.

Rose trusted him with her life – in this case, she thought that very literally – and so had no issue answering honestly. "I don't know," she said. "Not for certain, anyway. Slade's got a lot of tropical safehouses but I don't think either us of wants to go anywhere that's ever remotely seen our faces."

"Good," Jason nodded against her head. "That's good. Smart thinking."

Rose gulped and leaned back slightly. Still locked inside his arms she looked up into her boyfriend's eyes. "You told them how to find us didn't you?" Rose asked, already knowing the answer. "You told them how to find me."

He was silent for a few seconds but Jason had never lied to her. "I did," he whispered. "Not everything. I didn't tell them about any of the hideouts I know about. They only know about half of your disappearing acts and I'm _sure_ –" he looked at her intensely "– that there are ticks you've kept from me. I think you have a chance. Maybe not a fighting chance but a 'run for your life and hide for all your worth' chance."

Rose nodded, sinking back into his embrace. She didn't feel betrayed. She and Jason had been dating for a year and a half now and they had left the "hero-villain" arguments behind in the first six months of their relationship. There's was a complicated dynamic, the two of them everlastingly caught in their love of each other and their allegiance to their side of the divide. They had stopped holding it against each other. He had done more than she had honestly thought he would in giving her and her father a chance.

Jason pulled back, much to her dissatisfaction. "When do you leave?"

Rose, still disgruntled, checked her watch. 5:23 AM. "I meet Slade in about forty minutes. I don't know where we're going from there but I know we're leaving the country."

Jason, looking more intense than she had ever seen him – and that was saying something – nodded to himself. His hair – with that sexy white streak she loved so much – was unusually unkempt, lacking in any style and hanging loosely by his ears shook with the movement. He ran a hand down his face.

"Slade's good at hiding. Very good. But two people are just more visible than one. I want you to promise me that if things start to get too hot, you'll go your own way."

Rose nodded almost habitually. It was funny, really. As soon as they had decided to stop holding their alignments against each other, Jason had metamorphosed into the traditional, overprotective boyfriend hell-bent on keeping her out of danger despite the inherent danger of their jobs. She was well used to his overprotective demands and had long ago developed automatic responses.

This time, however, he didn't seem satisfied with that. He grabbed her shoulders roughly. "I'm serious, Rose. This isn't the Huntress chasing down a vendetta, this is the _fucking_ Justice League. You run, you run hard and you don't stop running, you understand me!?"

He began to pull away but she grabbed his hand. She didn't cry. But her eyes shimmered as she looked into his. "Will I ever see you again?"

He didn't speak for a long time. Instead he stared hard into her eyes, at her lips, down her form. She realized with sudden sorrow that he was memorizing her. She closed her eyes in pain, accepting his answer.

"I love you," was he told her, freeing his hand from her grip to cup her cheek. "I always will."


	3. The Decision

**The Death of Justice**

 **Chapter 3**

 _September 10_ _th_

 _Classified Location_

 _2:38 PM_

An alarm was blaring, loud and obtrusive. It wasn't facility wide; rather, it was localized to a small number of desks in the lower level of the main complex. This facility had many purposes, all of them classified but it had originally been built as a NASA facility to monitor deep space for possible transmissions and the like. The main complex of 'The Facility' – as the men stationed there had come to call it – still maintained this function; albeit in a far more active role than the disbelieving men who had staffed it in the seventies had.

In the main complex, The Facility had three separate alarms, all of which meant different things. Two of them were relatively new, pertaining to alien invasions incursions. These were not the ones that were blaring through the complex now. That particular alarm had, in fact, been installed in the late sixties when The Facility had originally been built.

General Roberts knew very well what the alarm meant. He had been commanding officer of The Facility for nearly thirty years and had been stationed there for many years before that. Still, even if there were protocols specifically laid out to tell one exactly what was happening in any given situation, it was best not to take chances. Particularly in his line of work.

Sidling up to a young computer analyst seated on the very end of the first row of computers, he placed a firm hand on his shoulder. He felt the young man jump and turn his head around wildly, calming considerably when he recognized the General.

"Sir!" he intoned firmly, attempting to rise from his chair to salute.

Roberts forced him back down into the chair. "At ease, Private. Situation report."

"Sir," the private said again, in more a tone of obedience than respect. General Roberts spied the name plate screwed to the bottom edge of the young analyst's computers. Private Paul Gains. Yes, Roberts could recall reading the young man's personnel file when he'd been transferred to The Facility. He'd enlisted fresh out of high school, hoping to trade his service for college tuition. That had lasted as long as it took for the powers that be to discover his computer skills. Offered a salary well above the usual Private's and the allure of classified information, he'd taken the posting here at The Facility.

The young Private Gains voice brought him back to the situation at hand. "Our deep space probes pinged something entering the solar system just under ten minutes ago."

"No possibility of debris?" Roberts asked, not very hopeful. The alarm would not have been sounded if that were the case. Fifty-four years of duty and The Facility had never logged a false alarm.

"That's why the alarm wasn't sounded immediately, sir," Private Gains replied, almost reluctantly. Roberts privately wondered who's decision that had been. It was a fine line here at The Facility. One always wanted to sound the alarm with enough time to prepare suitably but one also wanted to be sure it was a genuine threat. Perhaps Gains had been the one to stall sounding the alarm. "We wanted to be sure it was the genuine article."

"And?"

Private Gains typed away at his computer very briefly and Roberts watched as both his screen and the large, IMAX sized screen on the far wall flickered before they began to mirror each other. Roberts registered the image he was seeing as a map of the solar system. There was a small white dot – it looked ant sized compared to Jupiter's girth – as well as a long series of dotted lines outlining where the projectile had travelled.

"In addition to its subtle changes in trajectory, whatever it is, it's slowing down." Gains typed another series of commands into his computer and several boxes of technical information that Roberts didn't even want to pretend to understand. The gist of it amounted to a series of numbers and accompanying notations of speed that were slowly – _very slowly_ – decreasing.

"That's not good," Roberts muttered to himself.

"Sir?" Private Gains questioned curiously.

"If it's slowing down that means it has a purpose and if it has a purpose, that means it's coming here," Roberts replied distractedly. Throwing his gaze to the left he snapped his fingers impatiently at the Private seated on that side of the divide, catching her attention. Without his firm hand on her shoulder she, in fact, did stand to salute. "What's your name, Private?"

"Trisha Wilkins, sir!" she replied firmly, still saluting.

"At ease, Wilkins. Go turn that damn alarm off, we all know what's happening. Then get back to whatever you were doing."

As Private Wilkins rushed off to follow his orders, the younger Private Gains called his attention to the screen.

"Sir? New information for you!"

"Yes, yes, what is it?" Roberts stared blankly at the screen, the amount of techno jargon still confusing him. At times he cursed the onset of modern technology, despite how streamlined it made many of The Facility's tasks. He simply wasn't on par with these young Privates in terms of his understanding of such things.

Still, even he could see the sudden and rapid change of the on screen map's topography. Namely, it had changed to depict Earth; in particular, North America.

"What is this?" Roberts asked again. There was a blinking red dot directly in the middle of America.

"Private Granger's been running a series of predictive calculations since the projectile entered the solar system. This is our best guess at where it'll touch down based on its current trajectory."

Roberts gazed determinedly at the map. It was a basic geographical map; no towns or cities or names on it – there weren't even any country borders on the damn thing!

General Roberts paused in his thinking and breathed a sudden sigh of relief as the relentless, repetitive blaring came to a stop. He took a moment – just a single moment – to recollect his thoughts, now much more capable of free thought.

When he spoke, he fancied his voice was much more firm and authoritative than it had been a moment ago. "More specific, Gains, I need more specific."

If Gains noticed the new tilt to his voice, the Private didn't mention it.

Gains scratched the back of his head anxiously. "I'm sorry, sir, the Midwest is as accurate as we can get at the moment and we're lucky to have that at this distance. When it gets closer, we may be able to pinpoint a more exact touchdown point."

"At which point it will be too late," Roberts pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Orders, sir?" Gains asked nervously after a moment of silence.

General Roberts sighed deeply through his nose. "Steady on, Private." Then he cleared his throat and said again, much louder, "Steady on! All of you! You have done well, as will be recorded! Continue to monitor the situation and update me! It is largely out of our hands now!"

Lowering his voice again to the respectably quiet baritone it had been, he spoke solely to Gains now. "Hold down the fort, Private. I've a call to make. We don't have a location to scramble troops at, but we can prepare an aerial defense."

That said, the General turned on heel and set off in the general direction of the stairs that would lead to his private office which had a direct, solitary line to the Pentagon. However, he had not made it more than three steps when a far more seasoned voice than he had been speaking to shouted from the balcony above him.

"General! Priority call from the Pentagon!"

Roberts frowned. How coincidental could it get? "I'll take it in my office!" he shouted back.

Quickening his pace, he walked briskly towards the stairs, climbing them swiftly and closing the door to his office behind him. In fact, the phone – a bright searing red that itself denoted serious emergencies – already ringing. Roberts sat down in his stiff, uncomfortable chair – he had never abided by military leaders who allowed themselves such frivolities as a comfortable chair – and nervously picked up the old phone. He had used this phone only twice before in his command and neither had been pleasant conversations about the weather.

"This is General Roberts. Beta-Alpha-Tau-Mu-Alpha-Nu-1-0-2-6-9-9."

"Rho-Omikron-Beta-Iota-Nu-1-0-0-1-1-5. A pleasure to speak to you again, General Roberts."

Roberts tensed in his chair, his back habitually straightening into an even more perfect posture than it had been a moment ago as he resisted the urge to salute. It wasn't everyday one got a call from the Secretary of Defense after all.

"Sir!" Roberts settled for saluting with his voice in much the same way that Gains had been doing just moments prior. Everyone had their superior. "I wish I could say the same. We have a bit of a situation here, I'm afraid. I was preparing to call the Pentagon myself."

"Yes, I am aware of the situation, General." The Secretary's voice was cool and calm – very collected.

Roberts frowned. "Sir?"

"In the last few minutes your facility no doubt picked up readings of a hypersonic projectile entering the solar system inbound to Earth, am I correct?"

Roberts' frown grew deeper. "Yes, sir. My analysts have it pinged as accurately as the Midwestern United States with promises of greater accuracy as it approaches."

The Secretary's voice became brisk and brittle. "The Midwest is as accurate as the particular prediction is going to get, General. Rescind all orders to your analysts and cease operations in regards to this one."

"Sir?" Roberts questioned.

"It's friendly, General. That is the most you need to know. Are my orders received?"

"And understood, Secretary," Roberts replied habitually.

The Secretary offered no further response, opting instead to simply hang up. The line went dead and Roberts placed the phone back in its cradle. Just in time too as his office door was suddenly thrown open and he looked up into the eyes of Private Gains.

"Private?" Roberts intoned.

"A more accurate reading, sir. The object just cleared Mars." Gains said breathlessly, holding up a torn slip of paper. "Predictions have it landing in a Kansas town called Smallville."

Silently but quickly, Roberts rose from his seat and crossed the room in three great strides, wrenching the paper from the Private's surprised hand. Withdrawing a worn and used lighter – a memento from his father; Roberts didn't even smoke – he lit the paper on fire and held it until the heat became overwhelming, by which point it was practically all ash.

"Does the entire Analysts' room know of this?" Roberts asked briskly.

"No, sir," Gains replied quickly, quite confused now. "Granger forwarded it straight to me."

"Well you go and find, Granger and make damn sure he understands that he didn't calculate that trajectory and that _if_ this thing lands in Smallville, _we_ didn't know about it. Come to think of it, Smallville doesn't even exist in your vocabulary, you understand?"

Gains didn't even say anything. He merely nodded an affirmation and moved as if to request permission to leave. Roberts nodded and gestured to the door, watching as Gains rushed off to relay the message to Granger. Roberts ran a hand down his face, breathing out a nervous sigh. He had always hated these cloak and dagger classified operations. So stressful, having to manage who knew what and why. Still, Gains seemed quite adept at handling the situation. No questions, no arguments. He had got on with the task. Roberts would have to keep an eye on him. A man like that could rise far in a place like this.

Roberts fell back into his uncomfortable chair again and resisted the urge to reach for his 'private stores'.

Smallville, he mused. What he hell was in Smallville?

 _September 10_ _th_

 _Smallville_

 _3:02 PM_

She was visible in the sky by the time he arrived at the Kent Farm. A searing line of hypersonic speed tearing its way across the sky, she was going too fast to hear – though all in attendance were more than prepared for the ear-splitting crack that would result when she slowed down enough – but it was clear where she was headed. Both he and the Kents were still trying to puzzle out where exactly to stand. She'd been flying since she was thirteen but they weren't taking any bets on how lucid she was right now.

Barry had not been the first choice to receive her. Well, in terms of the League's decision, he had been but he had been far from his own first choice. In fact, he had pleaded with Dinah to take the role from him but his generally amicable attitude and his ability to make light of any situation was working against him here. Personally he was frightened any attempt to make light of the situation would result in a shattered sternum for him but here he was nonetheless.

She was getting closer now and a dull roar was beginning to fill their ears, though she was not slowing down. Briefly, Barry felt a surge of jealousy. True, he could and had run faster than she was going right now but it was always fraught with the dangers of running. If he wasn't paying attention at those speeds a stray rock could result in a very bad wipeout. He could only imagine what going that fast in the air – let alone the weightlessness of space – could feel like.

"How well do you think this is going to go over, Barry?" Jonathan asked nervously, his eyes directed straight upward.

Barry – and he really was Barry Allen right now, completely suited down and in 'civvy' clothes – ran a nerve wracked hand through his hair. "You raised her," he countered. "How bad did she get when she was angry?"

Beside her husband, Martha winced. "She threw a tractor through the barn roof when her first boyfriend cheated on her."

Barry winced himself. "That could be an issue."

"No I moved all the tractors to the west field," Jonathan assured him. Barry cut his eyes at the older man. Was he joking? There _weren't_ any tractors here, he did suddenly realize.

"Damn you, Dinah," he muttered to himself.

"Best step back," Jonathan said suddenly, gripping tightly onto Martha's arm and hauling her backwards. "Looks like she's coming down."

Barry looked up frantically to see that Jonathan was right. The dull roar they'd been hearing had increased dramatically and the white streak of speed they'd been watching was now bearing down on them sharply. Briefly, Barry experienced the now second nature feeling of the world around him slowing. Behind him, the Kents had paused, their hair – ruffled by the wind their adoptive daughter was creating – frozen in mid air. Above him though, she was still moving at just under a normal speed. That was disconcerting. He very rarely had to share this corner of the world with anyone. Barry shrugged it from his mind and raced backwards, stopping beside the Kents. His two seconds of – relative – solitude were over.

The thundering crack came first, splintering the air around them and forcing their hands over their ears in a futile attempt to blot out the intrusive noise. But shortly following it was an almighty rumble and the shaking of the ground underneath their feet as she contacted with the Earth. A great wave of dust, dirt and rock rose up in response to her landing and the three of them were left shaky and shocked at her entrance until the dust cleared and they saw her clearly for the first time. It was not a pretty sight.

True, her uniform was as spotless as always. It would take far more than a high velocity contact with solid ground to dirty that suit. And her hair was as beautifully well-kept and perfect as it always was – perhaps even more so, expertly blow dried by the hypersonic winds as it was – but the truth was in her eyes, her face and her posture. Within the crater she had created for herself, she was practically slumped over, hunched and stumbling, bracing herself against the rounded wall of the crater. Her face was drawn and exhausted, clear evidence that she had been travelling stubbornly through space in a desperate bid to get home without rest. And her eyes, half lidded in exhaustion were red and worn. Barry didn't know it was possible to cry in space, but it seemed she did.

Kara Kent was broken.

"Kara!" Martha cried in distress, rushing towards her young daughter. She paused only long enough to safely lower herself into the crater, by which point Kara had all but collapsed against the side of it. Slipping herself in-between her torso and arm, Martha heaved the young Kryptonian up as best she could. Barry found it disconcerting to watch the girl's head, heaved backwards by the momentum, loll back without any support.

Jonathan was quick behind his wife, proactively bending down and scooping the girl up in his arms, careful to cradle said head as best she could. Weakly, Kara wrapped her own arms around her adoptive father's neck but Barry could see that there was no genuine grip.

"Where is he?" she murmered, barely audible as the trio passed him by on the way to the house. "Where is he? Pa? Pa, I need to see him, where – where is he?"

She was already fading in and out of consciousness, holding on by sheer force of stubbornness – of which, Barry knew she had plenty.

"Shhh, darling," Jonathan hushed her. "You rest now. It's all okay, you're home. Rest, darling, rest."

Barry saw Jonathan tense slightly as the girl tightened her grip – probably far more tightly than she was aware – in a desperate attempt to hold onto consciousness. "No. No, I need to see him. Where is he, where's Kal?"

"You need to sleep, Kara," Barry interjected from Jonathan's left. Martha was trailing her husband on the right, running comforting fingers through her daughter's hair. For her part, Kara didn't dignify his claim with a response, but he could see she was gearing up for another series of muttered demands and so cut her off. "The answers will be here when you wake up, Kara. Sleep, for now."

She was obstinate as always, refusing to hear him as she mumbled the same question over and over. Barry sighed. She was exhausted, probably malnourished and more than a little sick but she was Kryptonian and beyond that, she was Kara Kent. They'd be lucky – very lucky – if she went to sleep of her own free will.

"Martha," Barry requested softly, catching the older woman's eye. He motioned for her to trade places with him and, although clearly reluctant, she acquiesced. Once on the right side, he laid a soft hand on Jonathan's shoulder. He came to a slow stop gazing at him curiously and he offered a small look of apology.

Lightly, he placed his hands on either side of Kara's head. She was still mumbling – now almost incoherently. With the barest of touches he vibrated both hands against her temples, held for exactly two seconds and released, watching with satisfaction as she slumped in her father's arms.

"What did you do!?" Jonathan cried – somewhat too defensively in Barry's mind, but he was prepared to let it go.

"Relax," he comforted the man. "I just vibrated her brain slightly."

He could tell by the looks of horror on the Kents' face he had chosen the wrong words.

He backpedaled. "That…could have come out better but there's not really a better description. She's weak. She needs rest. I just…eased her into the sleep. She was almost there anyway."

They were very clearly not content with that answer, but they had years of reasons to trust him and seemed to content to fall back on them for now. Silently, they marched towards the house, ready to give their daughter some much needed sleep.

 _September 11_ _th_

 _The Kent Farm_

 _5:15 PM_

Barry had been right – she did need rest. The Speedster had intruded on the Kents home for as long as he deemed possibly proper – it was half past eleven before the three of them agreed she would not be up until the morning at least – and had left with promises to return the following evening to answer whatever questions she may have.

"Provided she doesn't storm the Watchtower looking for answers herself," he had winked to the unamused couple. He had excused himself and, forgoing the teleporter, taken off at a comfortable pace – just over the speed of sound – towards Central City. He wanted time to think and there was no better place than the cross country highway system at hundreds of miles an hour.

His entire visit with the Kents had been as awkward at that last attempt at humor. They had talked idly about anything and everything – everything, that is, except the job and anything remotely related to it. It put him in a sour mood, he would admit. The Kents had been as big a part of the Justice League – in their own special way – as any of the Founding Seven in its conceptual years. They had offered sanctuary and rest to troubled heroes whenever they needed it, fully embracing the Southern Hospitality mindset to a degree Barry almost couldn't believe.

Now the desire seemed to have left them. They had lost the taste for anything related to 'The Life'. He truly wouldn't be surprised if they requested the removal of the Teleporter from their barn. He suspected the Kents would be withdrawing from their silent partnership with the League in the days to come.

He couldn't blame them – not really. But it was a sad affair nonetheless.

Thus, when he arrived at the Kents at five o'clock the following day – later than he had quoted them but you couldn't time Mirror Master's monologues to accurately – he was accompanied by a subtle air of reluctance and awkwardness.

Luckily, it seemed neither he nor the Kents would have much time to feel awkward today. Kara was already awake when he arrived, seated at the kitchen table in a flannel shirt and denim jeans that were so obviously big on her, they could be nobody's but Clark's. Barry's heart hurt at the sight but was also strangely warmed. The Kryptonian's hands were wrapped tightly around a hot cup of something – presumably tea; he knew Kara didn't like coffee – and she was staring resolutely into the steaming liquid as if it were to blame for her problems. Or perhaps she hoped it would take them away.

The Kents were nowhere in sight, though that wasn't surprising. This was a farm after all and the sun was still high enough for a couple more hours work this time of year. Jonathan was likely off doing his daily chores, though where or what Martha was doing, Barry could only guess at. Barry opted to take the seat opposite the young girl. His chair made a tremendous noise scraping across the hardwood but she made no indication that she knew he was there.

She did, of course. She had heard him arrive via the Teleporter and walk – not run – his way down the well-trodden path towards the house. Barry knew that. But he also knew that in her emotional state, it was best not to rush what was surely going to be a difficult conversation.

"You were there." She broke the silence with a determined statement. That was surprising. Barry had expected a question.

As such, he was a bit thrown off guard and took a moment to collect himself. "Erm," he hesitated. "Not…exactly."

She looked up from her drink for the first time and Barry could see that though the sleep had done wonders for her physical health, there were still plenty of demons playing havoc in her head. Her eyes weren't bloodshot and sunken anymore. But they were still drawn and tired in a different sort of way than sleepy.

She did not speak her reply. Rather, she gazed resolutely across the table at him until he squirmed in his seat and felt compelled to elaborate further. It was odd, he mused. He'd seen many police interrogations – even had a few conducted on him in the early years of being the Flash – but none of those interrogators were as compelling as Kara at the moment.

"I wasn't there for the…" he trailed off, hesitant both to anger the Kryptonian and reawaken his own pain. He cleared his throat again. "I was with Diana when we found him."

"Where is Diana?" Her first question was not the one he had expected, although it followed a similar theme to the one he had been expecting.

"Capitol Hill," he replied. "With Connor and Bruce."

She frowned. "Bruce?" she asked. "Or Batman."

Barry smiled slightly. "Bruce," he clarified. "The Committee was his brain – and money – child. He's there officially as the Committee's patron."

"Committee?"

"A group representatives chosen from a widespread variety of sources around the globe, brought together in order to promote a fair and balanced celebration of Superman's life so as to appeal to all denominations and cultures," Barry recited.

Kara narrowed his eyes at him in her first display of emotion beyond exhaustion – if Barry had to place it, he would have called it doubt. "Is that a quote? Did you practice that in the bathroom mirror."

"To Iris," Barry responded without thinking. He blushed, happy despite his embarrassment to see a small smile from the Girl of Steel. He shook himself and continued, "Bruce wrote that out so that if any League member got hounded by a reporter they'd have an official statement. And believe me, it's come in handy."

"Sounds like Bruce has put a lot of work into this," she said carefully. Barry tried to place the emotional undertone he heard in her voice but seemed unable to.

"Yeah," he replied just as carefully. "He's kinda taken control of the operation. You know Bruce; always calm in a crisis. And he figured this was a good chance to show the League in a positive light."

In hindsight, he could have phrased that better – or perhaps forgone saying it at all – but hindsight is twenty-twenty as they say. Her cup shattered instantly, shards of porcelain and hot tea spilling across the table.

She gave no outward signs of anger beyond a clenched fist but her voice was low and harsh as she said, "So glad that this situation is turning out good for the _League_."

"Kara that's not what I meant –"

A harsh look from the girl cowed whatever further platitude Barry was going to try and say.

"He was my cousin," she whispered. "My _family_. My…my _hope_! Without him, what am I!? Who am I!?"

"You're Kara Kent," he whispered to her, only to immediately regret that choice of words as well.

"EXACTLY!" she screamed, standing with such force that her chair flew back across the room, bouncing twice off the floor and colliding loudly with a very lovely end table on the far wall. Barry swallowed his memories of Martha's description of the tractor she had taken her anger out on. "I'M KARA KENT! FARM GIRL! A SMALLVILLE WANNABE REPORTER!"

"What's wrong with that?" Barry asked, trying very hard to maintain a level voice.

"I AM NOT KARA KENT!" she roared, bringing her fist down hard enough onto the table to crack in two, the splintered halves falling in on themselves with a loud bang. "I'M NOT KARA KENT! I AM KARA ZOR-EL! LAST LIVING DESCENDANT OF THE HOUSE OF EL, THE _LAST_ KRYPTONIAN! BUT NOT WITHOUT HIM! NOT – not without Kal." The last words came out in a whisper. A pained, hoarse whisper and she fell backwards into a chair that was no longer there, colliding instead with the hard floor and dissolving into a pitiful pile of tears.

Barry swallowed and wondered for a moment if he would prefer her angry over crying. He decided – whilst looking directly at the two large chunks of what had just been a whole table – that he would take crying.

He sped around the table at lightning speed, crouching down beside her as he did and enveloping her in as large a hug as he could manage, hindered as he was by the way her knees were touching her chin.

"Without Kal, who am I? I'm not Kara Zor-El. I'm not Kryptonian. I'm just a stupid girl who crashed on a planet years too late to do what she was meant to and who grew up dreaming of being just like her 'big' cousin."

"And what is so wrong with that?" he repeated his earlier question.

Kara shrugged him off and raised her head enough to stare blearily into his eyes. "Don't you get it, Barry? Without Kal, I'm not Kara Zor-El. Without Kal, I'm not Supergirl!" She sunk back into her knees and began a fresh bout of tears.

"That is not true!" he exclaimed. He didn't dare try and forcibly grab her attention – he expected it would be like attempting to move a car – so he settled for attempting to be loud enough to. "Your identity as Supergirl has nothing to do with Clark."

Kara barked an unpleasant laugh from deep within her throat. "How can there be a Supergirl without Superman, Barry? He was the one. The model. The guy everybody wanted to be. Me? Connor? We're just…reflections. And there can't be a reflection without a source."

Privately, Barry thought to himself that, that was a very poetic and well thought out argument, but to admit that to her would make it very difficult to counter said argument. Rather, Barry smiled to himself as an idea came into his head and he sped upstairs, rapidly searching through the rooms and found his prize, returning to Kara's side in just over a second – relatively.

With as much dramatic flair as he could manage, Barry tossed Kara's uniform onto the floor in front of her, privately very satisfied with the resulting appearance as it landed on the jagged remains of the table.

Wiping the smile from his face, Barry adopted as grim a face as was possible and asked very seriously, "What is that?"

"My uniform," she replied, her voice muffled.

"No, what's the emblem?" he clarified.

He heard a deep sigh from within the confines of her knees before she replied in the same muffled voice, "The insignia of the House of El."

"No, it isn't," he said harshly. "Krypton is dead, Kara. And the House of El is gone."

His words successfully pulled her up from her knees as she directed a look of truly fearsome anger at him. He maintained his fierce and calm façade, however.

"Or so you would have me believe."

She narrowed her eyes at him.

"What is that emblem?" he asked again, harsher this time.

"Kal's symbol," she replied this time and he cut her off again, just as harshly.

"No! Clark is dead. What's the emblem?"

"Superman's symbol!" she replied, her voice leaking true anger now.

"Superman is gone, Kara! 'The one' is gone! The guy everyone wanted to be, the model we all strived for! Is! Gone! So what's the emblem!?"

"MINE!" she roared, rising to her feet in a fit of defiance.

Barry dropped the harsh façade, happy to let a genuine smile cross his face as he gazed lovingly at the young woman across from him as she too donned her first real smile since they had begun their conversation.

"It's mine," she whispered to herself.

A statement.

A fact.

A promise.

 _September 11_ _th_

 _The Watchtower_

 _5:38 PM_

The Watchtower was quiet when she arrived – quieter than she could ever recall it being. Around her, the faces of those Leaguers who most frequently spent their time in the Watchtower were arrayed at their stations, conducting their usual tasks, alongside a few of the more less common Watchtower residents. Missing, however, was the usual animation with which everyone here went about their day.

It was a fact of nature. In order to don a brightly colored costume and galivant around the city, putting your own life at stake in the process in an attempt to save random lives in the service of 'the greater good', one had to have a certain select personality traits. Namely; hope, positivity and a general sense of good cheer. Superpowers or not, it took a very specific type of person to be a superhero. The only notable exception Kara could think of was Bruce – hell, even his kids were generally a very positive group.

As such, the Watchtower was generally a very lively place, full of dedicated and hard working people, yes but also with laughter and good cheer. Leaguers went about their tasks with efficiency but always took the time to talk to their colleagues and smile with them. Now, though, the Watchtower was all dour faces, serious looks and no unnecessary conversations. It was like being on the corporate floor of the Daily Planet, and Kara was none too pleased with it.

Still, she herself was well received. Everywhere she walked she was greeted by genuine smiles – the first, it seemed to her, any of them had worn in many days. It was difficult to pin a word on the expression they wore but if Kara had to guess she would call it gratefulness. Though what she had done to earn such a feeling, Kara did not know. It had taken her all of the walk from the Main Hub to the Situation Room to realize something she should have noticed immediately.

All of the smiles she received today had been very genuine and they had been solely for her, she knew. When she met the eyes of those she passed, she could see a very real happiness behind them. But her eyes were the second thing all of those people had looked at. It had not been her that had brought those smiles forth, even if they had been given to her – it was the S.

Kara was still musing on this when the door to the Situation Room slid open, revealing the streamlined interior of the oval shaped room. Kara always enjoyed the aesthetic of this room. Being in it was like being in a submarine. The entirety of the ceiling was one long, curved wall that continued until it met a flat floor. Arrayed all along the curved wall were equally curved screens that had been fitted just perfectly enough that whoever was manning the room – Dinah when she was here or Mr. Terrific when she wasn't – could view the information on them without any strain. The floor was a platform made of a thin strip of metal raised above the real floor that the occupants of the room stood on, whilst the real floor was occupied by all manner of crisscrossing wires and server banks. All along the sides of the platform were several computer terminals, hooked to the various screens that could be manipulated and toyed with to produce all manner of results.

At the present moment, Dinah was standing in the center of the room, surveying the screens with a practiced eye and typing away at the nearest terminal. She had not noticed Kara's entry, engrossed in her work as she was. Although Kal had been the official Chairman of the League, he had mostly been a figurehead. He would be the first to admit that all the real work was done by Dinah, who operated as the League's…Kara didn't want to say secretary but it was the most fitting word. She was the League's chief analyst, compiling data on every known villain into neat files that could be accessed from any League computer, she managed in progress operations as far out as the edge of the galaxy or as close to home as Metropolis, she – alongside the Question – managed the League's more illicit information sources to assist in keeping track of the more covert villains and she was the most skilled calibrator for the teleporter and so ran it in the event any Leaguers or Operatives needed fast, in transit extractions. All this on top of being a full time Leaguer herself who maintained a regular patrol alongside her husband Oliver in Star City.

She was a bit of an idol for Kara – even more so than Diana – so she was very happy it was the Black Canary in charge today and not Mr. Terrific.

"Dinah!" she called to the woman.

The blonde looked up from her computer, jumping slightly. She had been very engrossed in her work. But the shock was quickly replaced by a genuine joy when she realized who had interrupted her.

"Kara!" she cried happily and ran to meet the younger woman, enveloping her in a deep hug the Kryptonian happily returned. They stepped away from each other and smiled wide. "You don't know how good it is to see you, girl."

Kara smiled. "Back at you," she replied, her tone heavy. And she was right. Barry was good friend and he had given her a much needed pep talk but Dinah was a genuine confidant. A woman she had gone to many times over for advice, both about the job and about more personal things. She was a comforting presence and Kara was very relieved to be back with her.

For her part, Dinah adopted a worried look. "Barry told us about your," she fished for the right word, "arrival. Said you were delirious."

Kara grimaced. "Barry should learn to keep his mouth shut," she grumbled.

"He was worried about you," Dinah comforted her. She laid a loving hand on Kara's arm. "We all were."

Kara smiled again, a wide smile and thanked her. "But I'm back now," she said, a real strength in her voice. "And ready to get back to work."

Dinah looked at her skeptically. "You're sure you don't need a few days?"

Kara raised an eyebrow. "Has anyone else taken a few days?"

"Dibny," Dinah answered seriously, eliciting an eyeroll from the Girl of Steel.

"Don't know why I'm surprised," Kara muttered. She shook it off. "I'm fine, Dinah. There's work to do, right? Let's get it done."

Dinah sucked in a deep breath and released it, seemingly debating whether or not she was actually going to do as Kara asked. Nonetheless, she visibly relented and said, "Alright. Kori's done a good job of keeping things…relatively stable in your absence."

Kara winced. Koriand'r – or Starfire as she was known by the world – was a energetic friend, a passionate hero and an all around good person, but she was a far cry from organized enough to run MetaOps.

"I take it by 'relatively stable' you mean MetaOps hasn't been disbanded?" Kara asked dryly.

"Files are on your desk," Dinah dodged the question, smiling knowingly.

"Wait, wait, wait," Kara waved Dinah's attention back away from the computer. "Why was Kori in charge? Connor's my second in command."

Dinah looked at her strangely, as if she had said something odd. "Connor's been on Capitol Hill all week, in seclusion with the Committee," she replied. "Didn't you know?"

Kara sighed. "Barry may have mentioned it," she shrugged. "I was in a bad place when we discussing that. Hey, what's up with Bruce's bullshit script, by the way?"

Dinah heaved her own sigh. "You know Bruce," she waved it off. "Cold, detached and calculating to the last. He's put a lot of work into this Committee. Honestly, it's pretty impressive."

Kara hummed noncommittedly.

Dinah cut her eyes at the younger girl and, again, seemed to debate with herself whether or not to proceed. "You know, Bruce made the Committee's first public announcement earlier today."

Kara looked up sharply. "He did?"

Dinah nodded. "Said they had come to a decision deemed 'mutually acceptable' – I'm quoting there – and that they would be announcing it live at six."

"Today!?" Kara cried. She looked at her watch in panic. "I've got to go, I'm gonna be late!"

"Hold it!" Dinah exclaimed, forcibly grabbing hold of Kara's cape and pulling her back onto the ground. "You can't go."

"What!?" Kara shouted. "Dinah, I –"

"I get it," the older woman cut her off. "But these are orders straight from the top. Bruce suggested – and Diana agreed – that this needed to be a controlled and calm environment. The only heroes there are Diana and Connor. Everyone else is grounded."

"Dinah, I can't just –"

"On threat of suspension, Kara!" Dinah cut her off again and looked at her very seriously. "Don't push this, Kara. If you go, you go as Kara Kent. Not Supergirl."

"How can Supergirl not be present at the unveiling of the Superman memorial!?" she cried. Somewhere in the back of her mind she thought she might be being a bit petulant, but she ignored the notion.

"Don't try that, Kara!" Dinah snapped. "Connor is there. He's been there all week, in seclusion alongside Diana _and_ Bruce. One of Clark's protégé and his two best friends. Do you really think that he's not being represented here?"

"I have to go, Dinah," she stated firmly.

Dinah held her gaze for a long moment. "Then go," she said finally. "But it's your ass, Kara."

 _September 11_ _th_

 _The U.S. Capitol Building_

 _5:58 PM_

It was an odd day for the regular residents of Washington D.C. On any given day of the year, they were allowed to go about whatever underhanded business their political careers demanded of them unimpeded and unobserved. Aside from the Presidential election – which only dirtied their doorsteps every four years – the Capitol of the United States almost never suffered the attention of the general public. It was a commonly accepted symbiosis – the huddled masses were content to go about their daily lives, not interfering with the corrupt antics of their representatives provided those representatives ensured a certain quality of life. It was tried and tested and rarely – if ever – broken.

Today, though, was an exception. A very large one, in fact.

Those corrupt, twisted politicians were sweating very hard indeed as they could feel, quite literally, every set of eyes in the world trained on their place of work. Every major news outlet in the country had their cameras pointing at the Capitol Building, countless youths were filming or vlogging the event on their phones and a thousand more ravid journalists had their pens and tablets poised, ready to deliver copy-and-paste editorials to the entire world that all said the same thing and yet said nothing at all. Yes, the politicians were indeed sweating.

Of course, such nervousness was all for naught. Not a single one of the people present or the viewers watching cared at all about the politicians any more than they did any other day of the year. Their attention was focused solely on the eleven members of 'The Committee' – which had not earned a proper, bureaucratic name – and the message they would be delivering to the world this evening.

When Bruce Wayne had stepped forward the day after Superman's horrific death, offering the full extent of his funding and advocating for a Committee of diverse politicians to come together from across the world so as to properly memorialize the Man of Steel, the world had jumped to accommodate his desire. An assortment of politicians – chosen by billionaire playboy himself – from America, England, China, India, Pakistan, Brazil, Australia and Japan had travelled to Washington D.C where they met with Wayne himself, as well as two representatives the Justice League had supplied – Wonder Woman and the Superboy himself. It had all come together seamlessly.

The eleven member Committee had been offered use of the U.S. Capitol Building for the duration of their discussions and had gone into total seclusion in the intervening days. Wayne Enterprises technicians had arrived the first day to outfit the building with military grade hardware that prevented any bugging by the press and the UN had supplied an elite group of their infamous Rainbow unit to ensure no overeager reporter made their way into the building. The Capitol Building was completely locked down and not a word had been heard from it until earlier this morning when Bruce Wayne had made his brief announcement that the memorial design would be unveiled later that evening.

Not to say that stopped the overeager residents of D.C. and beyond from camping outside the Capitol Building all week, waiting earnestly to hear the decision the Committee had come to. D.C had initially tried to get their city back in working order, demanding their suddenly absent employees return to work, but had ultimately given up, accepting that no threat would sway them. The crowd outside the building had been more enormous than any recorded gathering of people in D.C. history, bringing together people from all walks of life. Top tier businessman camped beside middle wage fast food workers while underpaid and overeager reporters kept themselves awake off a dangerous mixture of caffeine and prescription drug use, refusing to take the risk they'd miss a career making scoop.

Now the dedication of this diverse bunch of people had finally paid off. Moments earlier, the doors had opened, everyone had stood and the Committee had made their way out onto the balcony, where a podium and loudspeakers had been prepared for them.

Bruce Wayne was first up to the mic, surprising no one. There were no teleprompters set up, nor did he have any flashcards in his hand. Whatever he and the others had to say today was not scripted; rather it came from the heart.

Wayne took an audibly deep breath before speaking in a controlled voice, "To begin, this Committee would like to first express their deepest regrets that it ever needed to be formed. Superman's loss was one we all feel and will continue to feel as time passes. Out of respect for that, we would like to take a moment of silence in honor of the Man of Steel we are all here for."

The moment of silence followed, thick and heavy with the emotion of not just the thousands in attendance but the millions at home as well.

Wayne took another audible breath and continued, "That said, we would like to also express our overwhelming joy at the cooperation and comradery that we as a people have shown over these past few weeks. The diverse group of representatives present in this Committee today represent much more than a checked box – they represent the coming together of a group of cultures that up until this point have largely lived apart. And we are very thankful for that."

Wayne's statement earned him a few applause, but the majority of the crowd continued to listen raptly in their silence.

"I now defer to the Justice League's primary representative here today, Wonder Woman, who has the honor of unveiling the Superman Memorial to you."

Wayne stepped down from podium gracefully and moved to stand at the end of the long line of politicians as Wonder Woman stepped up to take the stand. She maneuvered the mic to better fit her height, creating some unintentional feedback and straightened out her uniform, clearly uncomfortable with the amount of attention directed at her.

She cleared her throat. "After several days of debate, this Committee has finally come to a unanimous decision on how best to properly memorialize Superman. We recognize that…" She cleared her throat again, choking back genuine emotion before she continued. "Excuse me. We recognize that whatever decision we may have come to, it will never be enough to properly memorialize a man who spent his life in the service of others for no personal gain beyond the joy of doing it. Nonetheless, we are content with the decision we have made and hope you will be too."

Wonder Woman pressed an unseen button on her podium and an absurdly large hologram, depicting a statue of the Man of Steel in his signature 'hands on hips' pose appeared to the left of the Capitol Building's balcony.

"This hologram is a life sized depiction of our designs for the statue. It measures thirteen feet tall and will be made out of solid Nth metal, supplied generously by Mr. Wayne. The emblem is a separate piece and will act as Superman's urn. It will be carried in a procession through Metropolis, culminating in a ceremony wherein it will be welded into the rest of the memorial."

The reaction of the crowd was overwhelming. An uproarious applause met their ears, with everyone in attendance who was capable standing, whooping, hollering and whistling.

Up on the balcony, Connor leaned in to whisper in Bruce's ear. "Told her she had nothing to worry about."

Bruce only nodded subtly in response, giving no feeling of familiarity with the Boy of Steel away but he did smile internally. Diana had been very nervous that their decision would not be received well by the public. Her doubts and fears had led to an extra day and a half of debating before those in attendance – primarily Bruce and Connor – had managed to convince her that their decision would be accepted and even loved. Their would always be outliers, of course – one couldn't please everyone, after all. Yet now, staring out into a crowd of overjoyed and celebrating people, Bruce could not count a single one among them who seemed unhappy with the decision. That would come later, he knew – when the highs of today had faded.

But staring out into the crowd as he was, Bruce did notice something very odd. Amidst the sea of people that had amassed outside the Capitol Building, a single car was cutting through the waves, driving purposefully towards the steps the Committee was arrayed on, with the kind of confidence that clearly stated the driver expected those in front of them to get out of his way rather than other way around. Though car was perhaps the wrong word, Bruce reflected. It was, in fact, a limo, stretched longer than any Bruce had seen – and that was saying something. The windows were tinted an inscrutable black, denying him the ability to identify the driver or its occupant but most curiously was the materials the vehicle was made of. Bruce knew armored plating when he saw it and, though it was subtle, Bruce suspected that vehicle could take a rocket and keep moving.

Subtly, he made a gesture at Connor that anyone watching would take as a pointless motion, but Connor obediently moved to the opposite end of the line of politicians, ready to jump into action should they need protecting. By the time this was done, the limo had completed its drive and was idling at the bottom of the Building's stairs. The crowd peered in close, pressing their faces and hands against the tinted glass in a desperate attempt to find out who was inside.

Then the back door opened and he stepped out.

Bruce's face did not so much as twitch. His hands did not fidget. His suit didn't even crinkle. To all the world, he appeared as much the carefree, philanthropic playboy he had always been. Yet he felt a great swell of fury wash over his heart. Alexander Luthor stood before them, resplendent in a suit that probably cost more than the average salary of those in attendance, a gleaming smile on his face as the setting sun glinted off his bald head.

Refusing to stand on any form of ceremony, Luthor walked boldly up the steps of the building, walking all the way up until he was level with the podium, not-so-subtly announcing to all who were watching that he easily considered himself on level with these individuals. The reactions of the Committee were mixed. A great many of the politicians present – particularly the American ones – wore smiles equal to Luthor's, seeing him as a kind friend and generous benefactor. Superboy and Wonder Woman's reactions were quite the opposite with the former trying visibly not to grimace in anger and the latter clearly barely constraining her fury.

"A pleasure to see you all," he said in his most suave voice, that same smile on his face. "Sorry I'm late. Always good to make an entrance, eh Bruce?"

"Luthor," Wonder Woman all but growled, her amplified voice raising more than a few eyebrows in the crowd. It was common knowledge, of course, that Luthor and Superman – and, by extension, the Justice League – did not get along well and it was generally accepted knowledge that Luthor had tried more than a few illegal tactics in his attempts to remove Superman from the public's eye, but the majority of the population dismissed all that in favor of seeing Luthor as the shrewd and philanthropic businessman he was. He wasn't on Wayne's level of philanthropy, of course, but then who was?

"Wonder Woman," Luthor intoned with genuine sounding reverence, eliciting an almost shaking fury from the Amazonian. Unseen to either of the two, Wayne began to toy with the cuffs of his shirt. "Its been too long."

Wonder Woman genuinely did growl this time, a barbaric, guttural sound from deep in her throat that, luckily, no one in the crowd heard. They did wince, however, at the loud interference that blared through the microphone quite suddenly. Behind them, Wayne subtly allowed his hands to fall back to his side.

"Mr. Luthor," Bruce spoke calmly, wearing a gentle smile of his own. "We weren't expecting you. To what do we owe the honor?"

As he spoke, Bruce casually crossed the space between himself and the stage, coming to stand beside Wonder Woman. He traded what must have looked like a requesting glance with her, as if he was asking her permission to take the stand. Still steaming, she nonetheless nodded and stepped back down, her expression stormy.

Luthor smiled just as genuinely and made a series of overexaggerated miming motions around his mouth. Rapidly, a quick footed attendant ran out onto the balcony and passed along a microphone to the second billionaire in attendance.

Luthor attempted to speak, realized he was not hearing his own voice amplified a thousand times, fiddled with a switch on the microphone and tried again, saying, "An honor it is, Mr. Wayne. This is truly a fantastic thing you've put together. I hope you know that."

Bruce nodded his thanks.

Luthor turned on his heel, looking up into the eyes of his most hated enemy, all the while wearing a charming smile as he did.

"It really is, something," he mused to himself before turning back around to face Bruce again. "Nth metal, Mr. Wayne? How much is that costing you?"

Bruce shrugged very casually. "In remembrance of Earth's greatest hero? Not nearly enough."

Luthor chuckled, the laughter undercut with something sinister. "Kind as always, Mr. Wayne. Still, Nth metal is not a common material. Surely, you might consider sharing the burden of the cost?"

"I assure you, Mr. Luthor," Bruce replied forcefully, "it is well in hand."

"For a man of your stature, I am sure it is," Luthor agreed, "but I nonetheless insist you let me help."

Bruce attempted to speak but Luthor cut him off rapidly, saying, "You wouldn't deny a Metropolis citizen the right to assist in the memorializing of his city's treasured hero, would you Mr. Wayne?"

Bruce had to give the man credit. He was a phenomenal actor. He sighed, making very sure the mic could hear it and gave another smile. "You make a good case, Mr. Luthor. But I do not wish to put you out and I have already paid for the metal."

"All of it?" Luthor asked, putting on an incredulous tone. "Please, Mr. Wayne. There must be something I can do. Something small. The urn! Allow me to pay for the urn!"

Bruce looked ready to reply, to continue in this seemingly endless battle of platitudes, but he was stopped by a light but firm hand resting on his shoulder. He turned, looked into the eyes of Superboy and nodded, agreeing to let the young man take the stand.

Superboy plucked the microphone from its stand and turned to look into the eyes of the man who had plotted to kill his mentor.

"Superboy," Luthor said, his voice laced with a seemingly genuine sadness. "I am so sorry for your loss."

"All of our loss, Mr. Luthor," Superboy corrected, "but I thank you nonetheless."

Luthor nodded his acceptance and Superboy continued, "What Mr. Wayne is no doubt too polite to say, Mr. Luthor, is that there is the question of your trustworthiness."

Luthor raised an eyebrow at his audacity, along with the vast majority of the crowd and the Committee. Wonder Woman, though still clearly furious looked at him sharply, her anger mixed with worry. Bruce, for his part, maintained a look of faint amusement, despite sharing Wonder Woman's unease. Superboy needed to be very careful here.

"I'm sorry?" Luthor asked, seemingly content to let Superboy dig his own hole.

"You cannot deny, Mr. Luthor," Superboy said, "that you and Superman had much tension."

"We did not get along, that is true," Luthor conceded. "But am I not allowed to question authority, Superboy? To question the status quo? You are young, but surely the President, for instance, has not always made decisions you agreed with."

Bruce had to admire Superboy's acting abilities. The young man let out a very strategically placed and timed laugh before continuing, a slight chuckle still in his voice, "Yes, Mr. Luthor he has. And there have been times I've been displeased with the actions of those in power, the President in particular. But then, I've never taken active steps to undermine my President either, Mr. Luthor."

This elicited active gasps from the crowd and a step forward from Wonder Woman, as if she briefly contemplated taking the microphone from her. Bruce continued to look on his mask of faux amusement, all the while itching to take the stand again and take control of the situation. None of this could be done, however. Superboy had dug himself a hole and it was up to him to dig himself back out of it. Bruce only hoped he didn't serve to bury the League along with him.

"I would remind you, young man," Luthor said, a dangerous edge to his voice despite his pleasant smile, "that proof is needed to make such accusations."

"Probably cause," Superboy replied very quickly, his nervousness beginning to erode his conversational skills. "Probably cause, Mr. Luthor. It is my opinion that your past antagonism with Superman is probable cause enough to doubt your contribution to his memorial. Surely you can understand that?"

Bruce relaxed, the slight tension in his shoulders easing even if Diana's didn't. He was genuinely surprise. It had been touch and go there for a moment, but Connor had pulled through. He had, beyond all expectations, beaten Luthor. This was a corner he couldn't escape from and Bruce could breathe a touch easier.

"You're right, of course," Luthor continued. "I apologize for presuming too much. The League has its right to doubt me. I certainly never made my issues with Superman private."

"Thank you for your understand, Mr. Luthor," Superboy replied, clearly very relieved he'd managed to do that. The young man began to step down, even going so far as to hand the mic off to Diana as he did so before Luthor spoke again.

"Nonetheless, I would still like to make a contribution," the older man called after him. Superboy turned sharply on the spot and Bruce tensed ever so subtly again. "The urn. I will make the urn. And I will submit it to the full extent of the Justice League's tests to prove its innocence."

They froze, truly unable to comprehend this outcome and its ramifications. For all of three seconds, a heavy silence rained over the crowd before Diana managed to croak out a clearly reluctant, "That is acceptable."


	4. The Funeral

**The Death of Justice**

 **Chapter 4**

 _September 14_ _th_

 _The Watchtower_

 _2:48 PM_

The Watchtower itself was a marvel of modern engineering and scientific prowess. It had taken a total of three years to complete the entire project, with most of the manual labor being done by Clark, Diana, the Lanterns and J'onn. Through a seemingly interminable transfer of funds through an equally innumerable number of shell companies, Queen Industries and Wayne Enterprises had directed considerable portions of their net worth to the construction material under the guise of military contracts and international trade deals. It was powered by WayneTech nuclear reactors which burned clean power that was likely to outlast the sun, its hull was made up of a special Nth metal and Titanium alloy that Queen Industries had patented, and the computer programs that ran the station were actually a joint venture of the two conglomerates Tech departments.

Interiorly, the Watchtower was a mishmash of ideas and needs that the individual members of the Justice League created. John Stewart – the resident architect – had been the poor soul drafted into designing a workable station that had incorporated all of his colleague's requirements. The Founding Seven had required a conference room that allowed for room to grow as the League did. Barry, Bruce and Dinah had all insisted equally on the necessity of a gym for the Leaguers to utilize. Clark had requested a Hub Room in the center of the Watchtower to serve as an open work environment where most of the work got done, claiming an open concept room would lend to the League's 'open door' policies. Dinah and Mr. Terrific had been very specific regarding the unique aesthetic of their Situation Room. J'onn had submitted many ideas for what the Meta and PhysicalOps kids had since then dubbed The Crow's Nest. Dick and Kara had both had very unique ideas for the training rooms of their individual units as well as the captain's offices they'd both be using in service of those units. And, to top it all off, a significant portion of the Watchtower had to be redesigned when Barry and Ray had cracked the teleportation problem so as to accommodate the Master Pad and its necessary components.

Most obstinate of all though, had been Ray Palmer himself. A genius by any standard, the man was also incredibly picky regarding his work space. He had outlined to John and Dinah – who had been serving as the 'requisitions officer' during the construction phase – a strict outline of materials and necessary designs that he needed for his lab to work as efficiently as possible. Despite his bullheaded stubbornness – or perhaps because of it – he had gotten everything he'd demanded, though not without a significant amount of grumbling from both the architect and Dinah. The room had been designed exactly to his specifications. An adjoining room had been created to house the entirely separate power core that had been installed in the adjoining rooms so that the rest of the League didn't have to worry about him draining the main core too much at once and shutting off life support – it had only taken once for them to not want that again – and every piece of equipment he'd requested had been given to him. He had top of the line equipment from all over the globe, ranging from everything as simple as a microscope to things as complicated as high powered molecular scanner. All this on top of the not insignificant amount of room required for his own personal equipment which he used to maintain the Atom suit.

It was, the man was very fond of saying, the most advanced laboratory on Earth or in Heaven. Its state-of-the-art equipment, high quality materials, an all-inclusive assortment of chemicals, compounds and substances that no one else – save perhaps Barry – could understand were unrivalled in their quantity and quality. It was a scientist's wet dream and it was no surprise to anyone that if Ray was on the Watchtower, he was in his lab.

Currently, however, the man wished he was anywhere else.

"This is unacceptable!" Diana roared, not for the first time.

For once, the Amazon was dressed in civilian clothes. It was a rare occasion, truly. Diana was almost always in her armor, save for the few times she ventured out into the human world for the mundane things like food, a movie or – God forbid – a date. Ray couldn't recall a time he had ever seen Diana without her armor while on the Watchtower. Though he supposed he couldn't blame her. She had been forced to wear the armor for nearly ten days now, bogged down by the Committee and League responsibilities as she had been.

He wondered idly to himself how hard invincible Amazonian armor was to dry clean.

Yet as Diana brought her fist down hard on the metal lab table in front of her, creating a sizeable, fist shaped dent in it, Ray mused that though he couldn't blame her for her choice of civilian clothes, he was more than happy to blame her for the trashing of his lab.

They'd been at this for almost half an hour; well, he and Diana had. Ray had not left his lab in almost two days – a record even for him. Diana had delivered a solid gold, three dimensional rendition of Superman's famed emblem to him explaining through gritted teeth and heavy breathing that it was a 'gift' from Luthor to the Superman memorial. Why it was solid gold, neither of them knew. Perhaps Luthor had simply not been aesthetically pleased enough with the original Nth metal design. She had ordered him to search it as deeply as was possible to find something wrong with it – something he had done his very best to do.

Yet two days and a two page list of scientific procedures later, he had not been able to find anything remotely out of place with the thing. Diana, expectedly, had not been very pleased when he had told her.

He gave a dramatically long winded sigh and eyed the now destroyed table evilly. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to get replacement equipment up here, Diana?"

Diana continued on in her tirade as if she had not heard him. "There has to be something. There is more to this thing than we're seeing!"

"I'm sorry, Diana.," Ray said with remorse, casually wrapping his knuckles on the object in question. It had somewhat moved, the extreme jostling of the table it had been resting on upsetting its balance. "This is just a hunk of gold. Nothing special. Nothing sinister."

"It's from Luthor, Ray," she spit as if this explained everything. "There is _something_ wrong with it. There has to be!"

Silently, Ray picked up the clipboard he'd been jotting down notes on for the last two days off the table she'd ruined. He handed it to her and folded his arms as she aggressively flipped through the pages stuck to cardboard surface. He could see the myriad of angry red ink and lines he had haphazardly drawn around various experiments and projects, although he knew she probably wouldn't be able to decipher his workplace handwriting.

"What is this?" she demanded, tossing the clipboard back onto the table as she did. He frowned at it and then her.

"Every procedure, test, experiment and trial I ran on this thing, along with my personal notes on each one. Short of separating out every single molecule of it, there's not much I haven't done."

Diana sighed deeply and ran a hand down her face, before looking up at him with a look of complete seriousness. "And what would that tell you if you did it?"

Ray stared across the table at her, blinking slowly. "You're joking, right?"

Diana through her hands up in the air, furious. "What do you want me to do, Ray!? This is Clark's _urn_! And it came from Lexcorp, from that degenerate filth himself! Am I supposed to just roll over and let him do this! I cannot let Clark rest eternally in an urn given to us by the man who paid for his murder!"

"We don't have any proof of that," Ray muttered, earning himself a truly evil look from Diana. He raised his hands in surrender. "I'm sorry, Diana, I truly am. But if you didn't want Luthor's hands on the memorial, you should have denied him the right when he was on live TV."

"He didn't really give us much choice," she snapped.

Ray rolled his eyes. "Of course he did. You still could have flatly refused him. So the League would lose a few popularity points. The sanctity of the memorial would still be secure at any rate. I imagine in the midst of all this fond remembrance that not many people are going to have much to say against the League anyway."

Diana pinched the bridge of her nose, clearly conflicted. Ray suspected that, that had indeed been her first inclination there in D.C., but Bruce had been right there. Ever the calm, collected one, Bruce had always put the good of the League first. Their popularity ebbed and flowed like the tide but the reason it stayed as high as it did in the first place was because of the political maneuverings Bruce insisted they all take. Ray often found it amusing that, despite his vocal distaste for the profession, Bruce would have made a very good politician. Regardless, refusing Luthor when they had no legal precedent to do so would not have gone over well with the Dark Knight.

Yet Ray could not help thinking that if they had done so, he would not be here attempting to maneuver the minefield that was Diana Prince's mood swings. So he still would have taken it.

Running another stressed hand down her face, Diana turned to face him proper again, clasping her hands together in a pleading gesture. "I agree with you, Ray. _I do_. But it's not the hand we were dealt." She splayed her hands out. "So we have to do the best we can with the cards we've got."

Ray furrowed her brow at her condescendingly. Turning on heel, his lab coat fluttering behind him, he began to type a series of commands into his computer. "Have you ever played poker, Diana?" he asked, still typing. "Sometimes you just have to fold."

Ray finished typing with a dramatic flourish, turning again to face her as a magnified holographic image of the urn appeared in front of them. They both stared at it with intense dislike, though for different reasons. Ray had grown to hate thing over the last two days of intense study, and Diana, of course, hated it on the principle of its origin.

"I have scanned this thing at a subatomic level," Ray told her and then deadpanned, "Twice. It is pure, solid gold ignoring the hollow spot in the center for the ashes. There are no explosives, no weapons. No technology of any kind."

Ray slid his hands into his lab coat pockets, slightly guilty at the look of true pain on Diana's face.

"Really, Diana," he commented, typing in the command that dispelled the holographic image they'd been entranced by, "what did you expect?"

Diana glared at him. "From Clark's worst enemy providing his urn? I don't know. Something illegal, perhaps?"

"He vowed in front of almost the entire world on live television that his donation to the memorial would be nothing illegal. If Bruce is adept at political maneuvers, Luthor is masterful. He gains nothing from lying to us and the people but lost popularity and probable criminal charges."

Ray laid a comforting hand on the woman's shoulder. "We simply have to accept that the only thing untoward about this," he gazed at the urn for a moment, searching for the word, "gift…is its distasteful origin.

He dropped his hand. "I'm sorry, Diana," he said comfortingly. "He wont his one."

Diana sniffed, the closest to crying he had ever even imagined this woman being capable of and said forlornly, "He seems to be winning a lot lately."

Ray didn't have an answer for that it didn't seem Diana very much wanted one. She was silent for a time, her posture hunched as she rested her face on her hand. She was staring very intently at the urn, her eyes awash with a sea of different emotions. Without a word, she straightened, turned her gaze from the offensive object and walked out of the lab.

Ray rolled his eyes. "You're welcome," he said to the empty room.

 _September 14_ _th_

 _Ray Palmer's Lab_

 _4:36 PM_

The metallic hiss of his lab door sent a chill down Ray's spine. Visitors weren't his forte, particularly when they invaded his lab and he was none too fond of their regularity today. There were a variety of experiments he had running besides the in-depth analysis of a hunk of gold that Diana had demanded he do. He only hoped it wasn't Diana back again to give him another earful for not coming up with the results she wanted.

With his patented flourish, he turned on his heel to take in whoever his new visitor was, and he was only very slightly relieved to see it wasn't the Amazon.

"You know I'm not usually this popular," the scientist deadpanned.

Dick Grayson smiled very wide. "I know," he grinned. "Doesn't it get lonely?"

"No," Ray replied honestly.

Dick, like Diana, was not in uniform, though this was not all that unusual. He had instead opted for a heavy sweater and denim jeans, offset by his blue leather jacket. His hair was combed back into its signature fluff – though Ray was more fond of Jason's white streak – and, as always, he had a radiant, positive smile on his face.

If there were a beacon of positivity to step into the shoes Clark had left behind, Ray's vote was cast for Dick Grayson.

Without invitation, Dick stepped further into the lab, his eyes immediately drawn to the sizeable dent in Ray's lab table. Ray winced. It was beyond his control, of course, but he hated to present anything less than perfection in regards to his work and his workspace. It would take a couple weeks to replace the table – maybe longer with Superman's funeral putting a kink in the productivity of the League – and until then he had to hope Dick was the last visitor he'd have for a while.

Dick turned his gaze back to him, smiling mischievously as he raised a curious eyebrow.

Ray sighed and gestured grandly at the urn, which he had moved out of the way and onto a shelf against the far wall. "Diana wasn't happy with the results of my analysis," he said dryly.

Dick chuckled and wandered over to toy with the solid gold emblem. He attempted to hold it, groaned at the unexpected weight and sat it back down. Sniffing, he turned around enough to ask, "Perfectly innocent isn't it?"

Ray shrugged. "As innocent as a gift from Luthor can be, yes."

"No bombs though I mean."

Ray sniffed imperiously. "Bombs would be pointless as I tried explaining to Diana. The memorial is made out of an Nth metal Titanium alloy. You'd need a nuclear yield to scratch it and that can't fit in there."

It was only after he finished that he noticed the amused look Dick had on his face, coupled with another raised eyebrow and a general air of inquisitiveness. Ray grimaced. He was too used to talking to Barry who was at least polite enough to not tune out his more arrogant lectures.

He sighed. "No. No bombs. No weapons of any kind. The only thing evil about that thing is its intent."

"To undermine the memorial," Dick said, more to himself.

Ray shrugged again. "If you let it," he replied noncommittedly. "I suppose so."

Dick turned fully around now, a truly curious look on his face. He eyed the older man. "You don't think it does?"

Ray, who had turned back to his work now, called back over his shoulder. "What do you see when you look at that urn, Dick?"

Dick glanced at it peripherally, but took a moment to respond. "The 'S'," he shrugged.

Ray shook his head and turned around just enough to give him a disparaging look. "I'm the scientist here," he reminded him. "Don't be so literal. I thought you were supposed to be the poetic one in your family."

Dick smiled to himself. "That's Jason actually," he said. "Believe it or not."

Ray didn't. "What do you see – _really_ see – when you look at it?"

Dick frowned and tried again, "I see him. Superman. Flying. Cape flowing in the wind." Seeing the frown still on his face, Dick sighed and continued. "I see hope. The hope he brought. And happiness and…goodness. He was the one that taught me happiness, you know."

Ray didn't respond beyond a noncommittal hum which Dick chose to interpret as leave to continue.

"Yeah. It's not like Bruce, God help him, is much help in that respect. Clark, though…after my parents died I was bitter and angry. I wanted nothing more than to punish the men who had taken them from me. I wanted to be as cold as Bruce. As hard."

"Clark changed that?" Ray inquired.

Dick nodded, though Ray couldn't see it. "One night, I nearly killed a kid. Couldn't have been much older than me at the time. Street level thug. Worked for Zucco, peddling drugs to school kids. He couldn't have known anything." He sighed deeply. "But that didn't matter to me. I thought if he worked for Zucco, he had to have known every aspect of the guy's operation. So I beat him. And I kept beating him. Bruce had to pull me off and by then…well the guy barely made it."

Ray, surprisingly, seemed genuinely interested at this point. He had turned from his work to give Dick his full attention and was leaning against the counter with his arms folded over his chest. "Where did Clark come in?" he asked.

"After that night, I guess Bruce became worried I really would become like him. And he didn't think that he had what it took to change that. So," Dick laughed heartily at this, "he set up an all-expenses paid field trip for my school to take us for a weekend in Metropolis."

Ray blanched. "He couldn't just take you to see him? They were friends by then, weren't they?"

Dick nodded. "Yeah, he didn't want me to know it was happening. At the time, I wasn't very remorseful for what I'd done."

Dick trailed off silently, seemingly lost in the memory of regret. Ray gave him his moment of silence and then cleared his throat, startling the younger man out of his thoughts. "What happened?" he asked.

Dick cleared his throat. "Right," he shook himself. "Right, uh…we were on the trip, touring the Metropolis Museum of Modern History, when Superman flew down to talk to us. Just seemed like the kind of thing he would do, at the time. I didn't suspect anything. He talked to us all about how important history was. How we needed to pay attention and how fun it could all be. Only time I've ever seen a group of thirty thirteen-year-olds actually pay attention to a lecture. Then, real smooth like, he offered to take one of us for a brief flight around the block."

Ray began to chuckle, catching on to the plan and Dick chuckled with him.

"Of course we all were clamoring for it, raising our hands and shouting. He made a show of thinking it over and then picked me out of them. Threw me onto his back and took off." He laughed to himself in sudden remembrance. "Side note; that's why I wanted a motorcycle. The wind in my hair like that. I've never felt anything like it since but I've tried to get as close as possible. Anyway, Clark flew us around for a bit, before he landed on a nearby rooftop and told me he hadn't chosen me by accident. Imagine my surprise when he mentioned Bruce by name and said he wanted him to talk to me."

Ray smiled. "I imagine it came as somewhat of a shock."

"You have no idea," Dick shook his head. "Anyway, I won't bore you with the details. Honestly, I can't even really remember it very clearly anymore. But when it was all said and done, I realized he was right; and Bruce was too to a degree. Killing was never the way. Vengeance wasn't the way. It was about justice. About what was right. And about seeing the world as what you wanted it to be, even if that wasn't even close to what it was."

Before Dick had finished with his story, Ray was nodding, a large smile on his face as he did so. His reaction elicited a chuckle from Dick.

"What's so funny?" he asked somewhat defensively.

"Did you notice anything about your story there?"

Dick narrowed his eyes and hummed inquisitively.

"You didn't mention Luthor."

Taken aback, Dick turned and took in the urn – he thought – for the first time. The solid gold color was distracting but the emblem itself was there, emblazoned on the front. The design was intricate and detailed, clearly done in a mold that had been custom made to mirror exactly the correct dimensions of the 'S'. And along with it came every emotion, memory and thought Dick had ever had regarding Superman and what he stood for. 'Truth, Justice and the American Way' may be a bit old fashioned but it still brought a smile to Dick's face to think about the down home, friendly attitude the Man of Steel had brought to the world and to Dick, himself.

Ray was right. It didn't matter where the urn had come from. It mattered who was resting inside of it and the legacy that man had left behind.

Dick choked down the well of emotion that was building in his throat and checked his watch. "Cremation's about to start," he said, clearing his throat. "You coming?"

Ray waved him off, turning back to his work. "I'll be there," he promised. "A few more calculations to run."

Dick smiled and laid a friendly hand on Ray's shoulder, drawing his attention away for a moment. "Don't be late," he implored and left the man to his work.

 _September 14_ _th_

 _The Watchtower Morgue_

 _5:02 PM_

When the Watchtower had been constructed, there were more than a few members of the Justice League who had staunchly argued against the inclusion of a morgue. In their minds, it precluded a very negative and dreary outlook on the future. However, despite the fact that majority ruled in every other vote the League took, Clark made his only executive decision as chairman in the history of the Justice League – a power that had not actually ever been discussed – and had ordered John to include it.

It had come as a great surprise – Clark, the ultimate optimist, arguing on the side of including a morgue in the Justice League's headquarters, let alone ordering its inclusion. Yet, it had been his logic that to not include such a facility would be a disservice to those who may, tragically, go on to die in service of the League's cause. They would need a place to rest, he reasoned, before being returned to whatever family they may have for proper burial. It wasn't as if they could just leave their comrades lying in the street in that most terrible outcome. No one, not even the staunchest of those who had opposed it, could very much argue with that logic.

Eight years later, the irony that Clark was the first among them to ever take up residence in the facility, was not lost on anyone present.

Even before Luthor had gone and mucked up the waters with his 'generous donation', the plan had been for Superman's funeral to be a public event hosted on the twentieth of September, allowing plenty of time for Metropolis to cordon off a stretch of road for the procession, the cremation, the general gathering together of so many Leaguers and, of course, the construction of the memorial statue. All this on top of the alarming number of foreign dignitaries and American politicians who had, for lack of a better term, RSVP'd to the event. The two days spent analyzing the urn had stalled the cremation plans, pushing it back by a few days They had plenty of time left, but no one wanted to risk a malfunction only a few days before the ceremony. Besides, Clark's body had been in deep freeze in the morgue for nine days now. Short enough that he could have lasted another week longer but more than enough for everyone to begin feeling very uncomfortable with his presence there.

In the meantime, Bruce and Barry had been retrofitting the morgue's furnace with Kryptonite – so as to ensure the Man of Steel's body actually burned – and then retrofitting the makeshift viewing area with lead panels and lead infused windows – so as to ensure Kara could witness the cremation as she no doubt wanted to. It had originally been Ray's job but with his time taken up with the urn's analysis, the job had fallen to those deemed the most qualified in his absence.

It was not a large crowd present for the cremation. Every member of the League (and all its affiliates) had promised an appearance at the funeral tomorrow, but most of them had their own pressing issues to deal with – both super and mundane. Those present were Bruce, Diana, Barry, Oliver, Dinah, J'onn, Dick, Kara, Connor and Ray. There were no seats provided, the lot of them opting to stand out of respect anyway.

Clark's body had already been laid within the cremation chamber by the time Ray arrived, still dressed in his pristine lab coat. The group gathered close around the window, brushing together in various stages of empathy. Dinah was holding onto Oliver's hand for dear life despite maintaining a calm and hardened face. Connor had his arm around Kara as she rested her head on his shoulder, barely holding back tears. Barry and Ray traded whispered words too quiet for the rest to make out – save Kara and Connor of course – and Dick casually rested his arm on his adoptive father's armored shoulder.

Bruce silently keyed in the command on the console in front of him, watching as the flames ignited, steadily growing until their light burned the shadows of the rooms occupants into the far wall. The flames, altered by the Kryptonite, were a sickly, bright green, the glow of which made all those present uneasy. Kara hid her face in Connor's shoulder, refusing to look and even the young Superboy had his eyes closed, wincing almost subconsciously against the Kryptonite pain he couldn't feel. Barry and Ray had ceased their whisperings, mesmerized by the flames enveloping their former leader and J'onn too had closed his eyes, the flames – his own form of Kryptonite – making him uneasy. Oliver drew Dinah closer to him, his pained face easier to read than hers and Dick was staring pointedly at his shoes, breathing unevenly. Diana and Bruce, though several feet apart, stared resolutely forward, their eyes hard and distant. Bruce's hand was at his side, wrapped tightly around one of the ears of his cowl whilst Diana held a large, polished dagger, turning its orange and black handle over in her hand in a repetitive, mindless motion.

This sight was one of great pain, the rising flames slowly covering their friend's body, enveloping him until only the barest of details could be seen within them. Worst though, was the silence. In coming in here, almost all of them had expected a noise. Not a loud one, per se, but perhaps a dull roar or the crackle of a flame. They heard neither of these and nothing else. The makeshift led walls Barry and Bruce had erected worked wonderfully, blotting out all instances of any sound and leaving everyone present to the mercies of their own thoughts.

And indeed, they were altogether unpleasant thoughts. Doubt, pain, remorse, guilt – all of these and many more wreaked havoc in the heads of those present, toying with them. Perhaps if they had just been paying more attention, some of them thought. Perhaps if they had tried harder to foresee this, others questioned. Perhaps, maybe, if; the list went on, cruelly and painfully poking at them.

Then, as if it had never begun, it was over. The silence continued to reign, but the bright light of the flames receded until it was only a glimmer and then went out, casting the room back into unforgiving shadow. For a long while, none of them moved and despite the tears present in the room, no sound broke the silence. They stared resolutely ahead into the now black room, seeing nothing, but heavy with the knowledge of what was there.

Bruce was, of course, the one to speak first. "Doctor Palmer?"

Ray hummed questioningly in reply, his stare blank and his eyes far away.

"Please bring the urn to me. The rest of you may go. I will handle the rest."

Ray breathed in a shaky breath and straightened his lab coat, shaking off his moment of uncertainty. "It's rather heavy," he said hesitantly.

Connor cleared his throat from across the room and extracted himself from Kara's grip. "I'll get it, Bruce."

Bruce only nodded in reply, continuing to stare through the dark window. Slowly, the rest of the group began to file out, Ray and Connor leading the way as they veered off towards Ray's lab. They were followed shortly by Kara and Barry, then Dinah, Oliver and Dick – who had stopped to give his father a reassuring squeeze of his shoulder – until only Bruce, J'onn and Diana remained, all of which had not moved a muscle.

J'onn had not opened his eyes yet – Bruce wondered if he had slipped into one of his telepathic trances by accident – and Diana, like Bruce, continued to stare darkly ahead.

Finally, Diana turned, staring hard at Bruce as she said, "Its actually happening then."

Bruce likewise turned to face her. "Was it not before?"

Diana breathed deep. "He was still here," she shrugged. "Maybe not _here_ but…here. I don't know. Part of me though…hoped. Maybe he'd come back. I don't know how, I don't know why but…I hoped he would. Now…now it's just us."

Bruce took a long moment to reply, breathing several long breaths as he did. "No," he said firmly, "it isn't."

Diana looked across at him curiously.

"We aren't alone, Diana," he looked into her eyes. "Something to remember."

Diana stared hard at him for several seconds, before silently turning and leaving the room. Bruce sighed after her.

"I take it you do not have to be an empath to feel that," J'onn's deep voice resonated throughout the room.

Bruce glanced at the door she had walked out of as if it held better answers than he already had.

"The anger," he replied.

J'onn's eyes opened and turned to him. "I have never felt anything like it," he told him. "Cold. Fierce. _Dangerous_."

"What's she thinking?" Bruce asked.

J'onn narrowed his eyes at him. "I don't read the minds of my allies, Bruce. You know that."

"If ever there was a time –" Bruce began, only for J'onn to cut him off.

"No," the Martian said resolutely. "Whatever our concerns, Diana is still an ally. We will not treat her as anything less."

"And if she proves to be as dangerous as we think she is?"

J'onn snorted. "She _is_ as dangerous as we think she is. And more so. The question is whether or not she is a danger to us."

Bruce shook his head. "I am not so worried about us, as I am about _them_."

J'onn eyed him carefully. "You would really condemn her for it?" he asked, earning him a hard look from Bruce. "You would really blame her?"

Bruce took a moment to reply. "No," he said finally. "I wouldn't blame her. But I would stop her."

J'onn nodded solemnly. "As would I. It is good we are on the same page, Bruce. But that said, until she crosses the line, I will not invade her mind. _That_ is a promise."

Bruce sighed deeply through his nose. "I hope that righteousness doesn't come back to bite us."

J'onn began to chuckle, starting low in his throat and building until it was full-fledged laughter that filled the room, earning him a searing look from the Dark Knight.

" _What_ is so funny?" he demanded.

Still chuckling, J'onn said, "Bruce Wayne lecturing someone on self righteousness?" He laughed harder at Bruce's annoyed face. "Surely you don't have to be an empath to see the irony in that."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "Funny, J'onn," he deadpanned. "Funny."

 _September 20_ _th_

 _Metropolis_

 _10:30 AM_

The morning of the funeral was one of confusing contradictions. Above, the sky was clear and cloudless, a perfect shade of calming baby blue, yet the temperature was below freezing, frigid and burning. The marching band – a skilled troop that had been cherry picked from Metropolis University – played with energetic gusto, arrayed in sashes that portrayed the Man of Steel's emblem, yet their song was long, low and somber. An innumerably large crowd had gathered along the road the procession was walking, arrayed together in their absolute best clothes, yet they produced no noise and spoke no words. And, of course, the most obvious of contradictions; a mass of brightly colored heroes marching to that most somber tune without a smile to share between them.

It had been discussed – briefly – what the League ought to wear to the event. The idea had been passed around that they should array themselves in suits and dresses, as befit a funeral, but the idea had been promptly tossed out when the image of Batman in a bespoke suit with his cowl still on made everyone devolve into fits of laughter. It had been a good moment and the first laughter the League had shared together in over a week. Ultimately, though, the decision had been made for everyone to arrive in costume. It was better that way, they had decided. In light of the tragedy they were all there to commemorate, the lot of them though that it would present a strong, united front that would boost the morale of those watching.

The procession had started at City Hall. The League had showed up in mass as one cohesive unit – MetaOps, PhysicalOps, associates and all – making a grand spectacle as they teleported in one by one onto the steps of the building, finally ending with the casket and its pallbearers appearing at once in front of the rest. Security on this event was some of the tightest in living memory. All manner of government agencies – from the FBI, to the CIA, to A.R.G.U.S. – had lent large contingencies of skilled men and women to run security for the event. The UN had, again, provided an elite team from their Rainbow Unit who, although not visible to those in attendance, were surely on the prowl, stalking rooftops or moving through the crowd. In addition, a number of foreign counter terrorism task forces – Spetsnaz, the GIGN, MI5, Mossad and others – were present, there to protect their allies and further good will with their enemies who were in attendance. Yet everyone was more than aware that the presence of all these qualified organizations was more of a tradition than a necessity.

Statistics were coming in, recording the days leading up to Superman's funeral as having some of the lowest crime rates across the world in history. There had been no major villain appearances – if one discounted Luthor appearing at the Committee's announcement – since Superman's death, nor any actions taken by the Legion of Doom and the entire world seemed to accept that of all times, now was the time not to make a fuss. On top of that, no one really wanted to risk angering any member of the League with them on a hair trigger as much as they were. Everything from over-the-top doomsday plans to simple carjacking and dope pedaling had seemingly stalled to a screeching halt.

All that said, practically every member of the American government was present today, as well as more than a few foreign dignitaries. The entirety of Congress, a vast majority of the Senate, the President himself as well as most of his cabinet, – the Secretary of Defense was not present, having been chosen as the day's Designated Survivor – and besides that were the reigning leaders of every nation who had, had a seat on the Committee. An accident here today would result in such an upheaval of power on the world stage that the thought of it upset the stomachs of everyone who was paid to give a damn. Thus, although every nation trusted the skills of the Justice League, it was simply not viable to not have other forms of defense present.

The vast amount of defensive personnel present had evenly split out their troops, equally taking part in the front and rear defense of the procession. The FBI was 'in charge' so to speak, seeing as how this was American soil but all of the organizations present were operating fairly autonomously. The majority of the defense was centered in the rear of the procession, as that was where all the politicians and world leaders were present.

Leading the procession itself was, of course, Superman's casket, carried by Batman, Wonder Woman, The Flash and Green Arrow. It was a solid piece of mahogany wood, richly stained and stamped with the Man of Steel's emblem. There was no body in it, of course, but it did house the urn where Superman had been residing for the past six days. By the end of the schedules route, the three men suspected they would be very grateful for Diana's super strength. Solid mahogany was heavy irrespective of the presence of a body. Above, most of those members of the League who could fly, did. The three Green Lanterns, Supergirl, Shazam, Doctor Fate, Firestorm, Starfire and a few others. Some, like Red Tornado, opted not to fly for fear of making too much of an accidental scene with their ability and others, like Hawkgirl, felt more compelled to walk beside their colleagues.

Behind the pallbearers trailed every Justice League member, the full contingent of both MetaOps and PhysicalOps as well as all the Leagues affiliates like Red Hood and his Outlaws, as well the likes of John Constantine and Swamp Thing. They did not walk in any tight formation, instead weaving freely about each other to trade whispered words, brief hugs or hand holds and smiles of encouragement. It was a long walk to the memorial, which had been set up some three miles away from City Hall in what had been rebranded as 'The Superman Memorial Park', and most of the League were more than willing to dispense with formality.

Bringing up the rear of the procession were the politicians, dignitaries, representatives and leaders of what could be called the civilized world, making a concerted effort to look as carefree in their interactions with each other as the League did, despite the constipated looks with which they did so. In addition, there were a few decoys and disguised special forces operatives, packing heavy artillery into concealed carries so effective, they may as just have been another politician.

In the long walk from City Hall to the Memorial, the procession passed by a wide variety of people. Many had opted to fall in line with the procession itself as it passed, taking up the rear behind the defensive escort and making those operatives very nervous in the process. All manner of people from all walks of life crowded in around the procession, prying through each other in an attempt to get a view of the coffin. A large number of people had climbed their way onto the rooves, to peer down over the edge and even more had stayed snug in their homes, looking forlornly out their windows as they passed. This too greatly rattled the defensive escort in their frenzied attempts to keep an eye on every possible window, roof, person and stray dog that wandered through. They were largely unsuccessful.

Most in attendance would have laughed at them for the mere notion of attempting it in the first place – though not for the traditional reasons. While, yes, there were a great many politicians present, they were not the focus of today's event – however much they'd like to be. Everyone in attendance was here out of respect for the Man of Steel – not out of hatred for their governing representatives. To most, the presence of all these security forces was utterly unnecessary. Who was going to try anything on today of all days; let alone with the Justice League all present.

Up at the front of the procession, a commotion of sorts had begun to develop. A company of suited men arrayed circularly around a far better suited man had – rather impolitely – forced their way up and through the crowd, pushing past Leaguers until they came to the front. There, they allowed their charge to exit the human circle and walk leisurely beside a very particular man who had clearly been their target. This done, they immediately began to disperse into the crowd of superheroes to keep an eye out for any unprecedented danger.

More than a couple migrated to stand very near to Red Hood and his Outlaws, eyeing them with mistrust, earning said Outlaws many an amused look from their colleagues in the process.

"Mr. Manhunter," the President greeted jovially, a smile on his face that was far happier than the rest of those in attendance.

J'onn raised a nonexistent eyebrow in the man's direction. "Please, sir," he said formally, not returning the man's smile, "Call me J'onn."

"Of course, of course," the man nodded, waving his hand in the air as if he was physically waving away the formality. With practiced ease, the smile fell from his face as he gazed up ahead at the pallbearers and the casket they were carrying. "A terrible thing."

"Indeed," was the Martian's only comment, his deep voice laced with sadness.

"I hear talk that Slade Wilson is the scoundrel behind it?" the President inquired.

J'onn leveled a heavy gaze at him, opting to remain silent.

"And his daughter, too," the man pressed. When J'onn again refused to respond, he sighed and asked somewhat forcefully, "Any luck at finding them?"

Ahead of them, J'onn saw Wonder Woman twitch, inclining her head ever so slightly so as to listen. He sighed.

"Perhaps _now_ ," the Martian gestured grandly at the casket, "is not the time to discuss such things, Mr. President."

"Come now, J'onn," the man laughed audaciously, "Superman was an American hero. Surely you can –"

"He was, in fact, far more than that, Mr, President," J'onn cut him off somewhat snappishly. "As your companions in the back of this procession no doubt illustrate."

The President smiled again, though it was somewhat forced and chuckled uneasily. "Yes, yes, of course," he agreed. "'A hero to all' and all that. A good slogan, for sure, good for pushing peace but this was his city wasn't it? His country?"

J'onn resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the man. "I don't quite catch your meaning, Mr. President."

"J'onn," the man condescended. "Superman is dead, God rest his soul, and his killer is still on the loose. Now I have been _very_ lenient with the League's oversteps in the past – the amount of laws you people break on a daily basis is really quite astounding – but this goes beyond a simple bombing or bank robbery. I think it's time you brought my office in on the investigation, don't you?"

J'onn was silent for a time, staring at the man heavily as they walked without breaking stride. For once, the President seemed happy to remain silent, awaiting J'onn's inevitable answer. He was not the greatest politician, but unlike most of them he did know when to be quiet.

"There is an election next year, is there not, Mr. President?"

Whatever he had been expecting, that had clearly not been it. The President furrowed his brow, confused. "There is," he agreed. "I don't much see what that has to do with anything."

"You are running for re-election though, are you not?"

Slower to reply this time, the President hesitantly agreed.

"I imagine 'The man who avenged Superman' would make quite a good campaign slogan," J'onn commented, almost to himself. "Would it not?"

The President chuckled uneasily, the sparks of anger behind his eyes. "A bit wordy for my tastes," he replied, maintaining his forced joviality.

"Ah," J'onn drawled understandingly, "Then I shall spare you the trouble of having to think of a better one."

The President's smile flickered for the first time. "Now, listen here, Martian –"

"Thank you for your concern, Mr. President," J'onn cut him off again in a very polite tone. "But in the greater interest of everyone's security, I think it best you leave this to the professionals. Don't you?"

The President opened his mouth to speak again but was cut off by a young, forceful voice.

"You should return to the back of the procession, Mr. President," Superboy suggested politely. "The defense is most concentrated there."

The President smiled condescendingly at the younger boy. "Young man, if I am not safe in the middle of the entirety of the Justice League, where am I ever going to be safe?"

Superboy shrugged. "You never know, Mr. President." He leveled a firm gaze at the man. "Accidents happen."

For a moment, the President looked as if he was going to say something, but decided against it and made a gesture to his guards. Immediately, they convened around him and began to shepherd him away, back towards the rear of the procession.

"You should not have done that," J'onn chastised the boy. "That was very dangerous."

Superboy pulled a face. "Says the man who brings new meaning to the term 'illegal alien'. You're lucky if you don't get deported."

J'onn chuckled despite himself. "I live in the Watchtower," he said. "A bit outside his jurisdiction."

Superboy barked a laugh. "Not if you ask him."

"If you two are done giggling to each other," the sharp voice of Hawkgirl interrupted them. "It is time."

She was right. In the midst of their conversation, the procession had gradually slowed to a halt, stopping just in front of the memorial itself. The frontward defense had dispersed into the surrounding area, pushing back the crowd, scoping out the open park behind the statue and all manner of other things so as to allow room for the casket to make its way to the statue's base. The memorial truly was a sight to behold, standing so tall in front of them that his head eclipsed the sun, casting a long shadow across the procession. Strikingly, the center of the statue was hollow. On his chest where there ought to have been a hopeful emblem was a perfectly shaped triangular hole, eagerly awaiting the urn it would house for many years to come. The alloy the statue was constructed from was gray in color, and great care had been made to provide a more rugged, rough texture to the uniform itself as well as the hair whilst the skin remained smooth and unblemished. Despite the distasteful way they had acquired it, Superboy could admit to himself that the contrast of gray on gold would fit very nicely – far more nicely than the planned gray urn that had been in the original design.

A great hush fell over the crowd as, for the first time that day, the League adopted somewhat of an actual formation. The tides of heroes split, parting into equal halves and opening a path so that a solitary member could make his way to the front. The pallbearers remained still, their eyes straight ahead, staring holes into the statue's base. As had been discussed, Superboy walked forward, choking back a great swell of emotion as he did so. Stopping beside the casket, he placed both hands on it reverently, hesitated and then flung the lid open.

The crowd gasped dramatically and Superboy struggled to keep a straight face. Really, what had they expected? Tenderly, Superboy reached in and took hold of the shiny urn, pulling it out and cradling it as he continued his walk until he came to stand at the base of the statue.

There, on a large, equally golden plaque were stamped twenty-four words in bold letters.

 _It's not about where you were born or what powers you have_

 _Or what you wear on your chest;_

 _It's about what you do._

Superboy hesitated. "I miss you," he whispered for his own benefit before wordlessly lifting the urn high above his head, keeping his eyes trained firmly on the words of his mentor.

In equal silence, Superboy felt the weight of the urn lift from his hands and felt the shadow of his adoptive sister pass over him as she drifted weightlessly upward, stopping to float at eye level with the statue. Supergirl looked deep into the eyes of her cousin, but had no whispered words of comfort; to him, herself or anyone else. Instead, she lowered her gaze to the urn, ran her hand over the 'S' a final time and silently slotted it into place. Keeping a hand firmly on the center, she pushed just enough to ensure it would fit tightly.

She sighed and closed her eyes.

When they opened again, two great beams of pure heat radiated outwards, striking at the metal and passing as easily as a gaze over the connection between the statue and the urn. Within seconds, a masterful weld had been constructed, ensuring the urn would remain tightly in place.

With that, it was all done. The enormous crowd of people remained still, absorbing the silence. Supergirl did not lower herself from her cousin's statue, nor did Superboy move from his place at the statue's base. In the back, even the politicians had bowed their heads, content to take a genuine moment of reflection – motivated by approval ratings or not – and though the defensive operators present continued to keep a close eye on all those present, even they seemed to be taking a moment to themselves. The only discernable movement at all was the slow lowering of Superman's coffin and the closing of its lid.

Slowly, the crowd began to dissipate. There would be no eulogies today. No words of praise or remembrance. No stories of heroics and goodwill. People would be saying such things for the rest of their lives and likely many years beyond that. Today was not a day for that. And so, the people began to leave at times they saw fit, turning and pushing through the crowd until there was no crowd to push through and they simply turned and walked away. Many of the politicians present had been among the first to depart, followed either by a contingency of federal agents or their own national security force. The President was the last among them to depart, seemingly debating with himself on whether or not it was worth it to attempt another conversation with J'onn or another member of the League. Ultimately, he had decided against it and departed along with his personal security. Even most of the League had left by now. The Founding Seven remained, gathered close together beside the two Super children and a few other heroes.

Those who had been watching from their homes or on rooftops continued to do so, gazing down forlornly at both the memorial and those arrayed around it.

With the rest of the remaining contingency packed closely around the memorial, Diana took the time to extract herself from the group, subtly motioning for J'onn to follow her. Reluctantly, he did so.

"What did the President wish to speak you about?" she asked, her voice heavy.

Briefly, J'onn toyed with the idea of not answering. It would serve no greater purpose – save perhaps to anger her – and it was clear to anyone present that she was among those taking it the hardest. But J'onn was an experienced man and he was well aware Diana would tolerate no such coddling. Pointing out her emotional state would only serve to put J'onn in a very uncomfortable position.

Nonetheless, that did not mean he had to make it easy for her. So he chuckled deeply and said, "Reelection."

She quirked a curious eyebrow at him, requesting an explanation.

J'onn sighed through his nose. "It's nothing to worry about, Diana," he tried, knowing it would not work. "Yet another sleazy politician attempting to brush elbows with the League to grease his approval ratings."

"You seemed pretty heated," she commented. "Takes a lot to rile you up like that, J'onn. And Connor isn't usually that brave."

"We are talking about the same boy who challenged Bane to single combat, yes?"

Diana refused to dignify his attempted deflection with a response, opting to merely quirk another eyebrow at him.

J'onn sighed again. "He was inquiring into the whereabouts of Deathstroke." He winced at the way her face tightened in fury. "Why this pointless questioning, Diana? I know that you heard our discussion in its entirety."

"Reading my mind, J'onn?" she questioned softly.

"Too far, Diana!" he snapped, his voice just below a snap. "You know very well my policy regarding that…affront."

"A joke, J'onn," she backpedaled. "I did not mean to offend."

J'onn continued to steam.

"What'd you tell him?" she attempted.

J'onn cut a mean look at her and she raised her hands in surrender.

"I didn't hear everything, J'onn," she cried defensively. "I am a bit out of sorts today, as I'm sure you've noticed."

"Precisely the reason we need not have this discussion right now," J'onn replied somewhat mulishly.

"J'onn," Diana requested softly. "If I need anything right now, it's a distraction."

J'onn ran a frustrated hand down his face. Perhaps he and Bruce were wrong. Perhaps the anger he could feel radiating off her even now was a justified anger, righteous in its pursuit of those who had done wrong. Perhaps she did genuinely want to see those who had killed their friend brought to genuine justice. But he wondered to himself if, in this situation, he could truly risk that? He supposed at the present time, he didn't really have much of a choice.

"I told him to leave it to the professionals," J'onn said. "And then Connor may have subtly threatened his life."

"Excuse me?" she said, genuinely taken aback. J'onn managed to crack a smile, chuckling lightly. He was pleased to see she did the same, albeit not for very long. The tight anger returned to her face and she asked, "Do we have anything on him?"

J'onn stared at her heavily for a long moment. "No," he said carefully. "Recon teams have scoured all of his North American hideouts, their faces have been distributed to every major security force in the country – they can't walk in front of a camera without being dogpiled – and their accounts are being closely monitored. Either they have completely escaped our attention and escaped to foreign grounds or they are being exceedingly careful and waiting for a moment to do just that."

"That can't happen, J'onn!" she stated firmly.

J'onn quirked an eyebrow. "Easy to say, Diana. Difficult to do." He raised a hand to forestall her inevitable reply. "We are dealing with the most professional of the professionals, Diana. They have just committed a crime that has set the entire world's teeth on edge. They will not act carelessly. They will not act rashly. They will not even act quickly. And you may be forced to come to terms with the fact that we may not catch them for quite some time yet."

"What is that supposed to mean?" she demanded. "Either we will catch them or we won't!"

"I agree," he replied. "But it may not be any time soon. They may well have already disappeared into lands unknown. And it may be many years before they become complacent enough to make a mistake that will get them caught."

Diana did not have anything to say to that. Her face was awash in a myriad of emotions – none of them pleasant. J'onn wondered to himself if such an outcome had ever crossed her mind. He believed it hadn't. Diana was a dedicated and driven woman, whose own actions and strengths always brought about the desired end. He had never known her to fail at anything she had set her mind to. Yet here and now – arguably when it counted most – he suspected she very well might and he wondered how she would handle that.

J'onn was drawn from his thoughts by a sudden, alarmed beeping from his wrist. Reflexively he brought the interface up, tapping the passcode in and clicking on the alert. His heaty dropped along with his face as a cold chill went down his spine. If he had, had hair, it would have been standing on end. This simply wasn't possible. The universe could not be so cruel or careless. Quickly, J'onn attempted to mask his response, slipping on the mask of cool indifference he was most comfortable in and lowering the wrist-comm back down to his side. He began to scan the crowd, pointedly looking anywhere but at Diana. If he could find Bruce, tell him, then perhaps –

"J'onn," Diana forcibly grabbed his attention. "What was that?"

A million thoughts raced through his head at that moment, all of which he had already had today. Whether or not he and Bruce were wrong in their assumptions. Whether or not he could afford to risk that they were. Whether or not Diana could be trusted in her anger. These and many more questions wreaked havoc in his head before a clear, shining thought cut through them. The fact remained that despite all these worries, he had no just cause to deny her the answer she was seeking.

"Deathstroke and Ravager were just picked up by cameras on the Canadian border."

There was no mistaking the look on Diana's face now. It was crystal clarity, firm purpose and absolute dedication. "Details," she demanded. "Now."

"Diana," J'onn attempted, only to be cut off.

"Details, J'onn!"

"It's Clark's funeral, Diana," he attempted again. "Not today. Please."

For a moment, her dedication flickered. It was gone in an instant. "If I don't go now, we lose our chance. They will be in the wind again and they've proven we can't find them when they are. They're relying on us not coming, don't you see, J'onn. It's Clark's funeral. They don't expect us to leave it."

"And we shouldn't," he replied firmly.

"We can discuss morality later, J'onn!" she snapped. "Details. Now."

J'onn sighed and brought up his wrist-comm again. Rapidly, he typed away at it, transferring the details of the report to Diana. A ping from her own wrist registered the receival. "They're driving a 2008 gray Mazda 3. Move quickly. Given time, they will trade cars or ditch traditional transportation all together."

"Don't worry, J'onn," she commented, her eyes flitting over the information with practiced ease, easily picking out the important keywords. With a flourish she shut down the device and leveled an intense gaze at him. "They're not getting away."


	5. The Battle

**The Death of Justice**

 **Chapter 5**

 _September 20_ _th_

 _Somewhere Near The Canadian Border_

 _12:07 PM_

It was amazing the difference a few hundred miles and a drastic change in geography could make. When she'd left Metropolis, it had been cold, yes – bitingly cold even – but that was nothing compared to the sapping freeze she had begun to feel the closer she got to her quarry. Icicles had begun to form in her fast flowing hair, the blue cold freezing tendrils of her raven locks into wild patterns. She was practically flying blind at this point – literally. The cold winds had become so overwhelming that she was flying with her eyes closed, opening them only every so often to ensure she was travelling in the same direction or to check for possible updates on intel. Her skin, usually sun kissed and vibrant, had turned ghostly pale, battered as it was by the subzero temperatures and high velocity winds.

Diana was not deterred. She had fearsome resolve at her side and resolute determination. In this, she would not fail –she was certain. Harried by the knowledge that if she failed today, all possibility of taking down this prey would vanish like smoke, she pressed on in her resolve, never faltering. If there was anything that could be said truthfully of Diana Prince, it was that she was stubborn. Diana had always been the one to face an obstacle head first, preferring to plow her way through it rather than find a way around it. Today, it was that same bullheaded stubbornness that would carry her to Deathstroke and his daughter.

Diana had left the funeral in the direction of the general Canadian border, travelling at her top speed. Since then, she had not slowed down, making considerable time as she ate up the miles fast enough to make a commercial jet turn its head. And she knew that – she'd passed a few on the way. In the time since she had left the funeral, Deathstroke and Ravager had been spotted twice more, their faces registering only barely as they blurred past a number of Canadian speed cameras. They were not breaking any laws, of course, far too careful for mistakes such as that, but their faces were on the top of every 'most wanted' list on the planet. Those lists came with resources and those resources, in turn, served the League – whether knowingly or not. Bruce had many rules, dictated by firm morals, but hacking into government spy programs was not one of them. As a result of these sightings, Diana had enough foreknowledge – aided by the Watchtower's computation algorithms – to change her course. At her current trajectory – and with the knowledge she currently possessed – she would intercept them soon, barring any unforeseen complications.

Canada was a country renowned for its safety and low crime rates. To many nations around the world, they were the gold standard – particularly in regards to traffic safety. As such, every mile of their highway system had at least a single speed camera monitoring each side of the road, and – more importantly – every offramp also had a speed camera. It was no big surprise that the League had been unable to spot them many times, despite the excessive camera placements in the country – they were, after all, professionals. However, being a professional in a metal box traveling down the road at over seventy miles an hour is one thing. Being a professional when said metal box has slowed to a stop in order to exit the highway, is another. All that to say, Diana was reasonably certain they would have been spotted if they had left the highway, and so she continued on under the assumption they were still there. Better yet, the two following sightings had confirmed they had not traded cars, inferring they did not intend to do so until they had, at least, escaped the highway.

All in all, Diana considered herself extremely lucky. Were this under the usual circumstances – and had she been thinking completely clearly – she likely would have wondered if this was, in fact, a trap. Professionals like Deathstroke – and to a lesser extent, his daughter – did not often make mistakes like this. They were unseen assassins, who only left evidence if they wanted to. But, ultimately, these were not the usual circumstances. Not only had the both of them been caught red handed at the crime – a very rare instance in regards to these two – but they had also clearly been very rattled by the situation. In her myriad of times reviewing Barry's suitcam from the fight, Ravager's unease had been very clear. She looked almost nauseous with fear at the repercussions of what she had just partaken in – though Diana supposed that could be attributed to the smoke inhalation. Deathstroke had, of course, been hard to read due to his full mask. And though Diana would admit that his body language had not given off any notion of unease or nervousness near what his daughter had broadcasted, Diana refused to believe the man wasn't at least partially rattled. Why else would he be making the mistake of being seen so many times today?

Or perhaps J'onn was right, and she was seeing weakness where there wasn't any. Truthfully, it made much more sense that this was a last, desperate gamble to try and escape under the assumption that no one in the Justice League would want to violate the sanctity of Clark's funeral by chasing after them. Which, of course, she didn't but needs must when the Devil drives after all. She only hoped the rest of her colleagues would see it the same way.

No, she thought. They wouldn't. They wouldn't understand what she had to do here, weakened and fattened by a lack of true resolve as they were. Bruce especially would have no stomach for the acts she would commit today. This did not shake her, though. Just as her resolve kept her now braced against the cold, so too would it keep her braced against the adversity she knew she would face against her colleagues. She wasn't alone – this she was sure of. She knew there had to be others in the Justice League as sick of the corruption and evil their sanctimonious rules allowed to fester. She would have allies; at least, she hoped she would.

However, it mattered not to her in the end. For all her respect of Clark and the strength with which he had held to his ideals, those selfsame ideals had led to his death. Ahead of her now were the very people who had taken him from her. She was the Justice League's Chairwoman now. She would lead it as firmly as Clark had in his time. She would do what needed to be done.

It would simply be…a different type of rule.

 _September 20_ _th_

 _The Superman Memorial_

 _11:42 PM_

J'onn sought Bruce out immediately, but even in such a small crowd as this, it was difficult to attract the man's attention without causing undo alarm. J'onn was painfully aware of the number of eyes still on the Memorial now, and he did not wish to cause any of them any sort of panic by looking alarmedly around for one of his colleagues. Diana had already done enough damage in that respect, tearing off as fast as she had. He was fairly certain she'd left a crack in the pavement. On top of all that, J'onn also did not want to alert his fellow Leaguers to the situation just yet.

There were a variety of reasons for that, the most prevalent being the inherent danger there was in what Diana may do if someone tried to stop her. J'onn also worried, however, that a select few Leaguers might be anxious to join her if given the chance. They were all good people, he knew – J'onn was painfully aware that, despite the danger she presented, Diana was still a good person at heart – but Deathstroke and Ravager had gotten under their skins. He wondered at the mindset of some of them. Better to let things cool down. One possible renegade colleague was more than enough at a time, thank you.

With great difficulty, J'onn attempted to attract the Dark Knight's attention as subtly as possible, but to no avail. Arrayed as he was around a mourning Dick Grayson, the Super children and the rest of the Founding Seven, reaching Bruce for any kind of subtle conversation was out of the question. Lamenting what he had to do, J'onn sighed.

Making a great show of it, J'onn made his way to the memorial, careful to stay on the outside of the group as he stopped to stand in the shadow of his now gone friend. His eyes roamed over the words that had been stamped into the Memorial's base. They had been Oliver's idea. He had said it was something he remembered telling a young, would-be superhero years ago. Oliver had, had many misgivings about what made a hero at the time.

J'onn shook himself and returned to the task at hand. He centered himself in a place of peace, and with great care and an aura of calming comfort, J'onn stretched out with his mind.

 _Bruce._

To the Dark Knight's immense credit, he gave no show of having heard him at all, and were it not for his own innate confidence in his abilities, J'onn would have wondered if he'd reached him. Content in his own skill, however, J'onn continued to make a great show of pensive remembrance as he waited for the Bat to respond.

 _This is a first_ , the Dark Knight thought back in his direction, impressively managing to share some kind of conversation with Dick whilst having this mental talk with him.

J'onn winced. _I'm sorry_ , the Martian replied sincerely. _I had no other choice_.

If it were possible for Bruce to sight mentally, he managed it. _Say what you need to say, J'onn. I assume you wouldn't have done this without just cause._ There was a pause, followed by a swell of fierce emotion. _Just don't go snooping around up here._

Were this a different situation, J'onn may have taken the time to be affronted. But seeing as how he was broadcasting straight into the man's mind and well aware of the delicateness of this situation, J'onn would give this one to him.

 _It's Diana._

J'onn felt a great swell of something he was heretofore convinced the Batman had never felt; fear. No, J'onn thought. Apprehension. Or perhaps nervousness? J'onn shook himself. He couldn't afford to get lost in the man's emotions.

 _What about her? I noticed her exit a moment ago._ Bruce replied, his mental voice calm and sure. J'onn didn't know how he managed to come across as collected as he always did through a mental conversation. They were generally very raw and powerful, holding none of the usual masks verbal conversations did. It was why Martians had always preferred to converse mentally. It left less room for deception.

 _Hard not to notice,_ the Martian thought back dryly. _But that would be my fault._

 _What happened?_

J'onn sighed. _The Watchtower's computer automatically notified me of a Deathstroke sighting. Him and Ravager crossing the Canadian border._

J'onn felt a very peculiar feeling radiate from Bruce. If he had to guess, it was the closest the Dark Knight could come to widening his eyes without actually giving anything away to his colleagues. This was followed by a strong feeling of irritation.

 _You told her!?_

 _She was right beside me when I received the alert!_ he replied defensively. _I was close, Bruce. Close to getting through to her. A true revelation in regards to peace. Maybe even a touch of contentment. Then Deathstroke had to muddle it up by getting seen._

Out of the corner of his eye, J'onn saw Bruce typing a series of unknown commands into his wristcomm. _Yes, Deathstroke's greatest fault is his ability to muddy the waters of emotional healing,_ the billionaire snarked. _Would you rather he not be found?_ the billionaire asked as he did so.

 _Don't be childish Bruce. Yes, I'd rather he not be found now. Now? Now I think Diana is going to do something she regrets._

 _On the contrary, J'onn,_ Bruce replied, _I don't think she'll regret it at all._

As he thought this, J'onn felt a high wind kick up from nowhere, blasting him in the face with chilling air as a great shadow was suddenly cast over the street. Around him, the remaining bystanders looked up in awe and more than a few began to scream. The Leaguers looked around in bewilderment and then at Bruce in confusion.

As the billionaire began to wave off the concerns and questions of his colleague, subtly gesturing for his ward to follow him, J'onn shook his head.

 _You do realize the point of this mental conversation was to maintain an air of subtlety, yes?_

 _Patch the coordinates through to me,_ was the Dark Knight's only reply.

J'onn sighed and acquiesced. _Be careful, Bruce_ , he thought warningly. _There really is no telling what she may do. To him or to you._

Inside the Batplane, Dick clicked his seatbelt into place and donned the overlarge headphones docked into the side of his chair. Patiently, he waited for the cockpit to descend before asking his first question, well aware Bruce wanted this discreet.

"What's going on?" he asked. His voice came through the microphone muffled and echoed. They were designed for hypersonic flight, not stationary conversation. "I thought we'd stay a little longer than this."

"Deathstroke and Ravager were pinged crossing over the Canadian border just under ten minutes ago," Bruce replied gruffly, his hands flying over the console. An assortment of switches were flipped, buttons pressed and dials toggled as Bruce fiddled the plane into the proper configurations. The navigations system had clearly already been programmed. Dick's screen whispered flight details to him.

Slowly, the Batplane began to rise, its undercarriage propulsion system pushing it up and above the city's skyline.

"Deathstroke and – oh," Dick said, his voice hitching in surprise before trailing off. "Diana."

"Diana," Bruce agreed and engaged the throttle. The full force of far too many G's hit Dick like a ton of bricks, forcing him back into the cushy seat of the Batplane's copilot's chair for several seconds. Were he capable of the motion at the moment, Dick would have winced. He didn't know how many Metropolis high-rise windows just shattered but Bruce clearly wasn't wasting time worrying about property damage. When the plane finally leveled out and the all-encompassing force lessened, Dick quirked an eyebrow at the speedometer.

"Even going full speed we won't catch her," he warned his father.

"We won't catch her before she finds them," Bruce agreed. "If we're lucky, we might just catch her before she does something unforgiveable."

"When have we ever been lucky?" Dick shouted into the headset he was wearing. Dick couldn't see it, but he imagined his father was giving him a very disparaging look just about now. In less of a teasing tone, he called over the comm-line, "You don't think she'll really…?"

Bruce was silent for a long moment. His eyes flitted to the navigation screen. It was a long way to go. "I hope not," he said finally.

 _September 20_ _th_

 _Somewhere Over The Canadian Highway System_

 _12:18 PM_

Another update had come from the Watchtower Computer; the last that she would need before she intercepted them. Diana had been overjoyed to see that they had, as expected, not left the highway. The system had flagged both their faces as visible some seventy miles north of the border, travelling at high speed; but not _her_ high speeds. Diana had not even had to alter her course.

That had been three minutes ago and she was gaining fast. Having now dropped below the cloud barrier, the cold had abated somewhat, though it was still a fierce chill. It would be some time before her hair thawed. Diana wasn't bothered. In fact, she smiled grimly at the biting temperature. She could easily handle conditions such as these. But unarmored and unprepared as they were, the cold would no doubt come as quite a shock to the assassins systems, greatly impairing their ability to fight. Diana thought she had very good odds.

Others would call her arrogant, charging into battle with two seasoned and experienced foes as she was. She preferred to think of it as confidence. She was an Amazon. She was _the_ Amazon in many respects, princess of her people and daughter of Zeus. There was not much she could not handle alone and, she did not count Deathstroke and his daughter among them. Certainly not when they weren't expecting her and likely weren't even geared up or in uniform.

Dropping even lower, Diana began to scan the traffic with keen eyes. She had lowered her speed enough so that she was roughly going the same speed as traffic. The colors and models of the vehicles beneath her had become clear as crystal, easily discernible from each other. Or as easily discernible as modern vehicles could be – Diana missed the sixties. They had, had real cars back then.

Diana ignored the majority of the traffic, their brightly colored paints or oversized trucks not of any interest to her, beyond the tactical assistance they may provide in the coming battle. Of the cars below her, there were not many gray ones – she knew it was not a particularly popular color among automobile owners. But she had seen the traffic pictures and their vehicle was undeniably gray. There was no way for it to pass as black or white, even under this overcast sky. Seeing nothing in the current group of vehicles, Diana picked up her speed to overtake another group. She did this twice more after failing to see a matching vehicle – or even a noticeably gray one – in either of those groups. Finally, on the fifth try, she found them.

Or she was fairly certain she had, at least. The car looked to be of the right model – a hatchback – and the color matched the pictures she'd been studying on the way, but even Diana was not so clouded in her judgement to swoop down on it without further proof. She didn't want to hospitalize an innocent family after all. Deciding on a course of action, Diana swooped down, level with the cars and only a few feet over the road. Ignoring the multitude of incredulous – and star struck – looks she received, Diana began to advance on the hatchback. A great many people fished wildly for their phones, desperate to video tape or photograph her.

Pulling up level with the hatchback, Diana peered into the window. It was really quite amusing actually, the reaction she received. If the silver hair and eyepatch didn't give it away, nothing would. It was most definitely Slade Wilson and, in the passenger seat, his young daughter Rose who bore equally wizened hair. Slade, being blind on the side she had flown up to, did not notice her and Rose had her face buried in a phone, urgently tapping away at it. Diana didn't know what she was doing, but Rose Wilson didn't seem like the internet surfing type, particularly not with world class criminal charges pinned on her. Perhaps she was monitoring cameras or otherwise looking into assets to assist them. Diana shrugged. It really didn't matter.

Overcome with a sudden dark giddiness, Diana reached out a hand and rapped her knuckles on the window. The two's reaction was instantaneous. They jerked their heads in the direction of the completely unexpected sound, and the car jerked wildly in alarm. The two wasted no time upon identifying her. Diana had time enough to see Rose let out an inarticulate scream – though she could hardly hear it over the wind – before the girl's head was slammed backwards into the headrest as her father accelerated the car well past the local speed limit. Diana grinned to herself, allowed them a few hundred feet and then shot off at speeds enough to jostle neighboring cars.

Flying high, she sped past the Wilsons by a long stretch, looping around into a harrowing nose dive that would land her right in front of their vehicle. Pivoting at the last possible moment, Diana landed with a thundering crash and a great swell of dust as the pavement cratered beneath her. She heard the unpleasant sound of desperately screeching brakes but knew they had been engaged far too late to matter. The hatchback slammed into her at somewhere around sixty miles an hour, collapsing in on itself as it contacted with an immovable object. She watched with glee though the shattered windshield as Slade and Rose's head contacted heavily with the suddenly expelled airbags, the two of them disappearing behind the inflated white pillow.

Unsheathing her sword, Diana stalked around the car. The door was mangled beyond all repair and very far from functional. She slipped her hand lightly into the large gap that had been created between the door and its frame and ripped the driver's side door off with such force it flew far across the wide lane highway, bouncing off the median wall some forty feet away. What traffic had been around the hatchback had long since left them behind, speeding away in terror of the ensuing fight. Behind them, traffic was beginning to pile up, and a number of collisions had already occurred as vehicle after vehicle slammed on their brakes too late. Most of the people were already abandoning their vehicles, screaming as they ran in the direction of oncoming traffic. Those that couldn't open their doors crawled out through sunroofs or shattered windows to safety. Well, relative safety, Diana thought. She had no idea how far reaching this fight would be.

Slade slumped out of the car, battered, bruised and groaning as he collided roughly with the pavement. Diana had no smiles – grim or otherwise – for the man now. She looked down upon him with utter disdain. This man who had taken so much from her – from the world. For nothing more than money and, perhaps, glory. She did have to give him that, of course. Whatever happened to this man now, his name would live forever.

Diana spared a thought to muse on how odd it was to see Slade Wilson without armor on. Deathstroke was a renowned assassin for many reasons, not the least of which was his professionality. Deadshot was a skilled assassin, yes, but when contacting him you were just as likely to see him in a stained wife beater and ripped jeans as you were to see him in uniform. Not Deathstroke. He was the gold standard for professional presentation. Now though, he was dressed very utilitarian, in a simple black t-shirt and denim jeans. She didn't approve of his style. There was nowhere to grip properly.

He had already begun to try and crawl away by the time Diana reached down and grabbed a tight hold on the man's silver hair – again, she spared a moment to think on how very strange it was that he kept his hair long when the rest of his life was so clearly military oriented – and, taking pleasure in his scream of pain, heaved him across the pavement. He collided with the rough road a dozen feet away, bouncing brutally. His white hair now blemished with red stains as several cuts and scrapes opened across his body, he coughed and began to heave himself up.

That wouldn't do.

In a blur of speed, Diana cross the distance between them, transitioning seamlessly into the firm kick she delivered to his back. His arms, shaking, collapsed under the force and his face contacted roughly with the pavement. Diana could allow him no quarter in this fight. His innate healing factor would heal the concussion soon and when that was gone, these paltry cuts would do nothing to slow him down. However much disdain she had for the man, Diana could readily admit he had stupendous fighting abilities.

However much she wished to drag this out, she didn't have that luxury. Again, she placed her boot onto his back, digging the heal deeply into the space between his shoulders as he did. He screamed briefly but bit his tongue, too proud to show such pain to an enemy. Diana sneered. Her sword met the pavement, its sharp edge angled towards the man's exposed neck. His life would end as quickly as Clark's had, little more than a swiped blade, a rush of sparks and a spray of blood.

The ringing of rapid gunfire split the air and Diana screamed as six bullets connected with her back before she managed to turn and raise her bracers in defense. Diana was not invulnerable, despite widespread belief. Resilient was more proper a word. The bullets had not penetrated, nor would they have for some time. But the contact would leave her bruised and it had certainly hurt.

Amidst the hail of gunfire, Diana was able to catch sight of her assailant. How Rose Wilson was even conscious right now – let alone how she was shooting an assault weapon at her accurately – Diana did not know. But it was what was happening nonetheless. Her hair and face were concealed beyond an oversized hood – she was wearing a Gotham City University hoodie that had clearly not belonged to her originally – and she had two oversized pistols in her hand, pointed directly at the Amazon. So, reluctantly, Diana was forced to abandon her offense against Deathstroke and trade it for a defense against the man's daughter.

Diana took her chance as the girl ran out of ammo. The onslaught of bullets ceased and Diana sheathed her sword, sprinting at full speed towards the girl she'd presumed to be out of the game. Ignoring her weapons for now, Rose holstered her weapons and ran towards the car, leaping vertically and sliding across the now mangled roof at the same time Diana's momentum carried her past that side of the car.

"Dad!" the girl called out to her father. By now, Deathstroke had brought himself up to a sitting position. Most of his cuts – sans the deeper ones – had healed and he seemed to be slowly shaking off the grogginess his injury had given him. Just lucid enough to hear her, Deathstroke trained his attention on the girl just enough to let her know he was listening. Rose wasted no time in verbally responding, instead opting to open the back, driver side door of the hatchback before adopting a fighting stance.

Diana growled and, taking a firm hold of the vehicle's front grill, threw it sideways. It didn't go far, contacting with the wall of vehicles the oncoming traffic had created, but she and Rose now had an arena in which to fight and the demonstration of strength had clearly rattled the younger girl.

From beneath her hood, Rose's eyepatch was feeding her a barrage of information from her database as she squared up into a proper stance to best fight the Princess of the Amazons. Diana likewise forwent her blade, her toned muscles tensing into a fighting position of her own. Rose tried not to focus too much on the woman's ridiculously toned arms.

 _Superhuman strength_ , the interface informed her.

Rose braced her forearms together, taking the well placed punch Wonder Woman had delivered to her full force. Her firm legwork was useless, the force of the blow causing her locked legs to slide backwards across the gravelly pavement. Rose's defense broke and she heaved an immense breath of exertion before again falling back into her stance.

 _Superhuman reflexes_ , the interface taunted.

Rose aimed a wide roundhouse kick at the older woman's head, her steel toed combat boot flying through the air in a bid to connect with her temple. Wonder Woman put up no defense. She did not raise her hand to intercept the blow now angle her wrist bracers to deflect it. With inhuman speed, she merely opted to duck her head beneath the swing, allowing Rose's momentum to carry her well beyond her intended mark.

 _Flight_ , the interface laughed.

Seizing the opportunity, Diana aimed a well aimed kick at the girl's lower back, sending the girl sprawling to the ground. Quick to recover, Rose rolled with the hit, transitioning smoothly into a sweeping kick that the Amazonian didn't so much step over as hover over. By the time Rose had turned back around to face her, Diana was hovering high above her. Rose realized with a grimace what she was about to and had just enough time to again raise her arms in the best defense she could manage.

Diana swooped down from the sky, her boots connecting hard with the younger girl's forearms, the force of the impact sending Rose down into a newly formed crater.

 _Superhuman durability_ , the interface said smugly.

The dust of the impact lingered in the air for a moment, Diana scanning it from her position in the sky for any sign of movement. She had not been lenient. She was sure the girl was not going to be getting up.

Once more caught off guard by the sudden ring of gunfire, Diana did not have time to raise her wrists in defense before several bullets contacted aggressively with her face. Diana screamed in pain, her wrists flying up to deflect the new onslaught of ammunition.

When the dust cleared, Diana took in Rose Wilson, her clothes battered and torn, standing defiantly among the crater her body had just created, her weapons pointed straight up at her. Diana growled.

 _DO NOT ENGAGE! DO NOT ENGAGE! DO NOT ENGAGE!_ the interface warned her in flashing repetitiveness.

Rose sighed to herself. _A little late for that_ , she thought to herself. Holstering her weapons, Rose leapt forward, rolling roughly on the pavement as Diana charged downward, widening the crater with her impact force. Wonder Woman wasted no time, pivoting on her heel and charged towards the younger woman. Rose had no time to draw her weapons. She braced herself.

Diana's fists contacted hard with her defense. Ravager grunted, barely managing to keep her balance. Devoid of any weapons, their fight devolved into a clash of fists and kicks, each landing hits on vital regions, deflecting blows where they could and dodging those they couldn't. Rose was, surprisingly, holding her own quite well against a superpowered individual such as this. Despite her many years of experience, she had always avoided the heavy hitters of the world. She saw now that was a mistake. The likes of Black Lightning, Beastboy or even one of the Super children were nothing compared to this. Rose's blows, though frequent, pattered off the Amazon's reinforced flesh like rain whilst every hit Wonder Woman landed came with the force of a gunshot. Bruises and welts were already popping up all over Rose's body and she was fairly certain she had a broken rib. At this point, her place in this fight was thanks only to the adrenaline and the Enhancement Serum.

Diana, for her part, was beginning to get angry. She had not expected any kind of fight out of the girl, fully expecting her to go down when the car was first stopped. The Justice League's files were extensive and detailed in regards to her but not a single one of them had ever mentioned that she had taken the Enhancement Serum her father had been the subject of. A well-kept family secret, clearly. With its assistance, she had stayed standing far longer than the Amazon had ever intended, giving Deathstroke – the real threat – far too much time to recover.

That said, Rose was obviously the inferior opponent. She was simply not as strong as her combatant and however skilled she was, she was no match for Wonder Woman. The Amazon, patiently awaiting a break in the younger woman's defense, continued to dodge her continuously weakening blows, only halfheartedly returning them until the point came where she saw an opening. Wonder Woman's fist fit seamlessly through the gap in Ravager's arms, connecting savagely with the girl's unarmored chest, eliciting an unsettling crack. Rose gasped in pain, flying backwards through the air and landing roughly on the pavement.

Ever resilient, she immediately began to try and claw her way up. Her hood had fallen now, revealing the true breadth of her weakness. Her face was battered, bruised and cut, her skin pale against the overwhelming cold. Her hair, usually thick and lush, was ratty and coarse, its white sheen blemished by mud and blood. She tried halfheartedly to push her way off the ground, only to fall backwards again, gasping in pain as she clutched her chest.

Diana wasted no time, unsheathing her sword once again and charging, swinging the blade down in a wide arc directly towards the girl's head.

 _CLANG!_

Diana roared in anger. Her blade had not split the girl's head as she had intended. It had not painted the pavement with red blood and gray matter. Instead, it had connected loudly with the suddenly outstretched blade of Deathstroke, its eerie green glow bathing the injured girl in a sickly light.

Diana couldn't see his face, now hidden securely behind his patented mask, but she was sure he was grinning. Tightening his grip on his own blade, Deathstroke heaved, throwing Diana's sword away from his daughter as he nonchalantly stepped over her, the Kryptonite blade held loosely at his side. Rose, lying helplessly on the ground, groaned loudly, clutching at her chest in obvious torment.

Diana growled, her attention flitting from Deathstroke's masked visage, to his sword held tauntingly at ease to the young girl now groaning and panting on the ground. She didn't know how long the girl's healing factor would take to revive her. Diana was sure she had fractured her sternum and knew breaks like that took far longer to heal than simple cuts or concussions. It was more than possible she wouldn't heal at all from that in the course of this battle. But she also knew the girl was resilient, and that as soon as she was capable, she'd be back on her feet again.

Diana couldn't keep this up. Trading one for another as they gave their partner time to heal from whatever wounds she may inflict could only go on so long before Diana herself started to tire. And she knew Deathstroke would be far more of a challenge now that he was back to 100%.

"Step aside, Deathstroke," she snapped. "You'll get your turn."

"Come on Wonderful," he gloated, unknowingly cutting at her nerves with the nickname. "You don't want to throw yourself on the blade your boyfriend died on?"

The blade in question twitched at his side, but he still made no move to raise it, further infuriating her. She didn't know why, but she had not expected him to use that blade. She had inferred it to be a trophy, a symbol. Not an actual weapon one would use in a fight. Yet here it was, the sword that had taken her greatest friend from her, in the hands of the man who had wielded it. Dian's fingers tightened around the hilt of her own sword, turning white. She would destroy them both.

Diana leapt forward with a scream of inarticulate rage, her sword flying through the air in an overhead arc similar to the one she had only just attempted to perform on his daughter. No rescue came now, however. No mystery friend stepped in to take the blow. Deathstroke merely sidestepped, allowing Diana's momentum to carry her to the ground, the metal of her sword sparking wildly as it collided with the pavement.. His blade rose just enough to take the sweeping blow she attempted upon landing, but with a ringing of steel he again threw it away from him.

"You sure you're up for this?" he questioned. "I understand if you're not. Grief is a powerful thing, after all."

Diana did not bother to respond. She had come to her full height again – easily equal to his – and, only barely slipping into an attack position, darted forward to strike again. With skill to rival hers, his blade rose only barely enough to take the hit, before disengaging. He stepped back, distancing himself from her and pivoted to avoid the sharp stab she sent towards his stomach.

A flash of green smeared across her vision and Diana only just managed to duck her head under a blow that would have taken her head. She rotated, her own blade spinning around to strike at his chest, but he had distanced himself again, raising his blade to intercept. Her sword slide down the Kryptonite edge, ringing unnaturally as it did.

Deathstroke sighed. "I remember the last time we fought like this, Wonderful. Just after the Taiwanese President's assassination." She swiped at him again and he deflected. "You put on a better show than this."

Diana roared angrily charging forward. Her sword connected with his. Offset with inhuman strength, she pushed firmly against him, desperate to imbalance him. Deathstroke had his own strength though, and while not nearly on her level, he had enough to hold his own against her forceful push.

Deathstroke leaned in close. "Maybe you're just losing your touch."

Diana reared back and headbutted him with all her might. Caught off guard, Deathstroke stumbled backwards, but he was not fool enough to drop his defense. Though clearly stunned, he still managed to deflect her next blow, grappling with her long enough to throw her away from him, her own momentum carrying her off balance.

Diana began to realize, perhaps for the first time, how skilled this man was. She had clashed with him before, yes, but it had not been on terms such as these. It had not been personal. They had been simple. He had been the bad guy; the assassin, the murderer, the villain. She had been the good guy; the paragon, the hero, the protector. Their fights had been clinical. Each struck firm and true, aiming to deliver as much precisioned damage as possible to the other before one of them inevitable bowed out, choosing life and a loss over death. Diana was not ashamed to say this man had gotten the better of her before, but they had always played on a level field.

That was not the case this time. Now, Diana was throwing her everything at the man, hammering him with vicious attack after vicious attack in a desperate bid to simply hurt him as much as he had hurt her. For his part, however, he continued to conserve as much energy as possible. He had thrown no attacks of his own, save for a few halfhearted reposts and counterstrikes, opting instead to let her throw himself against his iron defense as her blade skirted off his well-aimed counters.

Diana realized then that she was losing. Rose was still laid out on the ground behind her. She wasn't moving, but she wasn't dead. If this fight continued as it was, she would be up before long and Diana wondered for the first time that day if she actually could take both of them at once. Deathstroke was calm, collected. He showed no signs of having participated in a head on collision earlier that day. His stance was firm, his blade work tight and efficient. This fight was not personal for him. It was the same as every fight they had ever had and there were no stakes beyond that which he risked every day of his profession. He was as apathetic as he had always been, and it was why he was going to win today.

That would not do.

Their blades clashed again, the unearthly ringing rebounding off the walls of the now very much abandoned highway. With a guttural scream, she gripped the pommel of her sword with both hands and shoved with all her strength. Caught off guard by the move, Deathstroke flew backwards but maintained his footing. He readied his Bastard Blade again and waited for her to make a move.

She didn't. Her own sword slid back into its sheath with a metal shriek that silenced all at once as she stared intensely at him. His shrouded face twitched, the featureless visage showing clear signs of curiosity. In a smooth motion, Diana withdrew the large dagger from her side and held it up for him to view.

For several long seconds, Deathstroke stared across the gap at it before chuckling softly. "I was wondering where that went."

"You can have it back," she replied and threw it with all her might. Caught off guard, Deathstroke's shoulder caught the blade at full speed, its metal length sliding through the unprotected flesh until its hilts caught and the tip was sticking out of the man's back. The mercenary cursed, momentarily faltering as his hand instinctually flew upwards to grip at the dagger's hilt. It was all the time Diana needed.

Her lasso alighted with gold as it flew through the air at her behest, expertly tightening around the pommel of the dagger now buried deeply into Deathstroke's flesh. She tugged mercilessly, relishing in the man's scream of pain as it was wrenched out, flying freely back towards her waiting hand. She caught it and smoothly turned, walking confidently towards the girl still prone on the ground.

She could hear Deathstroke's grunt of realization behind her, but their distance and his newfound pain was too much. He could run – she could hear him trying – but he wouldn't make it. The familiar clatter of a sword falling to the ground filled her ears. He was losing weight, trying to quicken his pace. Diana stepped over the girl and crouched beside her. Peripherally, she could see the man sprinting towards her, attempting to ignore the piercing pain in his shoulder. A wound as deep as that would not heal easily.

She grabbed the young girl's throat tightly and her eyes shot open. They focused immediately on the Amazon she had only just recently lost too. Futilely, she attempted to struggle, unable to escape both Wonder Woman's firm grip and the unbearable, torturous pain in her chest. Realization dawned in her eyes as she saw the bloodied dagger in her hand. Diana had to give the young woman props. There was no fear now. Only acceptance. Perhaps she had known this was coming.

Diana sunk the blade deeply into her chest. Her body went rigid and for two seconds she gasped at air that wouldn't come. Then Diana, her hand still wrapped tightly around the girl's throat, felt her pulse fade and released her. Her lifeless head connected roughly with the pavement and her final breath left her at the same moment her father skidded to a stop beside her, his knees sliding along the pavement.

Desperately, grabbed hold of her, cradling her to his chest as he checked for a pulse that wasn't there. A sound like sobbing escaped his throat as he wrenched the dagger from his daughter's chest. "Rose!" he cried. "Rose! Rose, ROSE!"

Diana did not give him the luxury of mourning. From her standing position, she delivered a sharp kick to the man's head, luxuriating in how he collapsed backwards onto the pavement. It was shame the Kryptonite blade had been left so far away. How poetic it would have been to take his life with that. She would settle for her own blade.

Diana stepped over him, musing lightly at the lack of fight in the man. He had not yet tried to get up, had not even moved since she'd knocked him down. She knew he was alive. Deathstroke would not die now, to a fast footed kick in the head. He had simply discovered the pain of true loss. Diana had made it personal for him. He wouldn't know the feeling for long.

"DIANA!"

She faltered. Caught by a sudden second wind, Deathstroke sprang into unexpected action, spinning rapidly from his prone position. His legs caught hold of her armored boots, sending her sprawling to the ground as he pivoted into a crouch. He shared a poignant glance with someone she couldn't see, before turning and sprinting towards the median. By the time she had stood back up, he had climbed into an abandoned, still running car on the other side of the highway and was beginning to make his escape.

Diana rushed to follow him but a tight grip wrapped suddenly around her arm. She reeled, her fist poised to strike viciously at whatever or whoever new threat this was, but the tautness of her muscles lessened considerably when she recognized Deathstroke's rescuer.

"Br-Batman!?" she cried, just barely remembering protocol. "What are you doing!? He's going to get away!"

She wrenched herself free from his grasp, but by the time she'd turned back around he had swooped in front of her to take up all of her vision. She stood on her toes and craned her neck in a desperate attempt to look around him but saw little beyond the all-consuming black of the Dark Knight's armor.

"Let him go," the Bat growled. "Explain yourself, Diana."

For the first time, Diana registered just how truly angry Batman was with her. He always had a low growl to his voice, of course – it was just part of the persona – but this one was guttural and the ethereal whites of his eyes were narrowed into dangerous slits. Whatever he was imagining she had done, he was furious about it.

Diana narrowed her own eyes. "I don't have to explain anything to you," she stated firmly. "Now move out of the way before I lose my chance to catch Deathstroke!"

She attempted to push past him but he obstinately stood his ground, firmly braced against her shove.

"Batman!" a new, younger voice interrupted.

The both of them turned. Nightwing was on the ground, cradling Rose's Wilson's lifeless body to his chest. Her head hung limply off the side of the young man's arm, her long hair splayed out along the pavement. Her eyes were still wide open, frozen into a snapshot of her death. Nightwing looked up at them, his eyes locking with Batman's and shook his head.

Bruce growled from deep in his throat and ran a gloved hand down his face. "How could you?" he whispered, his eyes closed. His voice didn't growl this time. It was shallow and high and truly pained.

Diana didn't notice it. She sneered, her face a mask of anger and disgust. "Don't lecture me, Batman. I did what I had to. What was necessary."

Bruce's eyes snapped opened and he turned towards her, taking a vicious step forward. "Really!? Because from where I was standing, you shoved a knife into a defenseless, defeated girl's chest!"

"Then you were standing in the wrong spot!" she retorted. "I killed a murderer. An assassin. A cold hearted bitch responsible for the deaths of countless innocents! And you expect me to grieve for her!? To regret it!?"

Nightwing, having gently laid the girl back down, now stepped up to bat in this conversation of ideologies. In his hand, he held a small, polaroid picture. He extended it to Diana, saying, "She doesn't look so heartless to me, Diana."

The picture was clearly old. The photo was worn and weathered, clear evidence it had been held tightly by someone, and there were four distinct crease marks, indicating it had been folded for better storage. It depicted two people. A girl – Rose – who's luscious white hair was, for once, not up in a ponytail. She was not wearing that digesting eyepatch. Her face was free of any and all indications of stress and worry. Looking at her, one wouldn't ever think she was a world class assassin. She was holding an overlarge cone of Cotton Candy, the head of which was bigger than her own, and a young man with black hair with a white streak through it had his arm around her. Their eyes were both closed, crinkling in inaudible laughter at some unknown joke.

"She had it on her," Nightwing informed her. "Saw it poking out of a pocket on her jeans. Are you going to tell him, Diana?"

Diana was silent as she stared hard at the photo. Jason Todd, smiling like she had never seen him smile, stared back at her. She remembered him as a young boy, when he had still been Robin. Bruce had brought him to the Watchtower a few weeks before his death and he had been so full of happiness and energy. In the days since he'd come back and donned the Red Hood persona, Diana could not ever remember seeing such an energy in him. Until today, that is, looking down at this picture.

A memory tickled her.

" _Bruce tells me you have some information to share with us regarding Ravager." It was a statement, but it came out as a question._

 _Jason, his hair its usual, debonair floppiness, nodded silently._

" _I wasn't aware you and Ravager had history."_

" _More than you might think," he smirked._

Diana's face was stone as she stared down at the picture. Silently, she opened her fingers and watched the photograph flutter downward. When the smiling couple were face down on the ground and the white back of the picture was facing upward, Diana lifted her gaze to the two men.

"You should keep a better eye on your children, Batman," she told him.

Batman squared his shoulders. "They're right where they need to be."

"As am I," she retorted, stomping forward. She purposely shoved the Bat aside with her shoulder as she marched off in the direction Deathstroke had fled.

"Diana!" Batman called after her, his voice short. "You're in hot enough water with the League as it is! Don't make it worse for yourself!"

Diana came up short and barked a harsh laugh over her shoulder. "That's your problem, Batman. Always forcing your own ridiculous mindset onto everyone else."

"You broke our most sacred rule!" the Bat snarled after her. "Don't think you'll get away with it!"

This time, Diana turned fully around, her face its own mask of fury. "Your rule! Yours, Batman! Not mine. Not the League's."

"Diana," Nightwing, ever the mediator, called after her calmly. "You know the League won't stand for this. Superman ran the Justice League under the same principle as Batman. He didn't die for this. Don't do this."

Nightwing realized too late that, that was not the correct thing to say. Even mentioning Superman's name – let alone inferring he would have sided with Batman in this discussion – was not the thing to do at the moment. Diana's face cooled into a cold mask of indifference – far worse than the look of abject fury it had only just been.

"Frankly, Nightwing, I don't particularly care what Superman would have wanted," she spat coldly. Her hand flew out, pointing viciously at Rose's body. "The fact of the matter is that he isn't here to take a side because _she_ took him from us."

"Deathstroke killed him, Diana," Nightwing replied calmly. "Not her."

"And I would have killed him too!" she screamed in reply. "Just as quickly! Just as easily! If you hadn't interfered, we _all_ could have slept better tonight knowing that filth wasn't walking the same ground as us!"

"Don't!" Batman snapped, cutting in. "Don't you dare count yourself among us! If you were with us, if you were one of us, you wouldn't be spitting in the face of Superman's most treasured value! You wouldn't have plunged a knife into that girl's heart! Don't you dare pretend to be doing this in the name of Superman's honor. I promise you he's rolling in his grave at your actions."

Batman, for all his skill, did not see her coming. She crossed the distance between them in a blur of motion and he was not fast enough to intercept her blow. It connected full force with his cowl, the sheer weight behind her punch cracking the armor from the corner of his right eye to halfway up the cowl's ear. Batman reeled, stumbling backwards. Barely, he managed to keep his footing. The armor had taken practically all the force and besides a migraine that had sprung very suddenly into existence, he was no worse for wear.

Reclaiming himself, Batman slid into a fighting stance, ready to engage the furious Amazon. He was not able to. Her retribution delivered, Wonder Woman took to the skies with a deafening crack of sound, her takeoff splintering the pavement. A trail of smoke was all they saw as she tore through the skies.

Nightwing sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Smooth, Bats."

Batman glared at him. Only one of his cowl's eyes was functional now, still glowing ethereal white. Wonder Woman's blow had destroyed the circuitry of the other and Nightwing could see the fury behind his father's eyes.

"Don't give me that look," the younger man waved him off. "You could have handled that _far_ better."

"Alert the League," the Bat responded, his voice surly. "Wonder Woman's gone rogue."

Nightwing sighed again. "That," he said definitively, "is not a call I ever thought I'd have to make."

Typing away at his wrist-comm, Nightwing set off in the direction of the Batplane. Batman grabbed his son's arm tightly, his mouth set into a grim line.

"Don't mention Rose," he ordered. "I don't want Jason to find out that way."

Nightwing paused in his typing. He looked deeply into the Bat's eyes. "Did you know?"

Bruce stared back at him in silence for a long time. "Love, no matter who it's with," he said finally, "is a burden we all share. Make the call."

 _September 20_ _th_

 _Wayne Manor_

 _6:07 PM_

It had been at least an hour after their discussion with Wonder Woman before Bruce and Dick left the sight. Properly arranging Rose's body had been difficult – the Batplane was not designed to carry anyone besides its pilot and copilot – but they'd managed to clear enough space in the cargo hatch for her. Feeling very uncomfortable about the whole thing, they had strapped her down, reluctantly admitting it was better than allowing her to collide with the walls at hypersonic speeds.

With that dealt with, the bureaucracy of superheroing had reared its ugly head. Wonder Woman had made quite a mess, given her choice of fight venue and Bruce and Dick had the unfortunate duty of cataloguing it for the Watchtower's Computer to assess the damage. The League had a strict policy of reimbursement if the number exceeded a certain figure, and, unfortunately, Bruce was certain this amount of public property damage would do it.

Amidst all that, Bruce had also picked up Deathstroke's abandoned sword.

It was laid out before him, unsheathed on his desk. Its ethereal glow was the only light in his study. He had the curtains drawn, blocking out the last of the dusk light. The half empty bottle of whiskey on his desk and the completely empty tumbler in his hand reflected wildly off of it. Lost amidst a sea of thoughts, Bruce stared deeply into the Kryptonite surface. Looking at it now, Bruce felt as if he could fall into it. An endless, consuming ocean of green.

Bruce didn't look up when he heard the door to the study open, though he did blink against the sudden onslaught of light from the hallway. Alfred entered, carrying a tray laden with a tall glass of water and a simple but delicious looking sandwich. Abruptly – and with disdain – Alfred reached down and plucked the heavy blade from the desk, replacing it with his carefully laid out tray. That done, he reached across and flicked on the desk light. Bruce didn't argue.

"Eat," the butler commanded. "And drink."

Bruce shook his head. "Later."

Alfred hummed disbelievingly. He wrapped his hand around the neck of the whiskey and held it up, eyeing its contents dubiously. "Master Bruce, I am very sure you have a busy day tomorrow, given today's…circumstances. Now, your mood is foul enough given ordinary circumstances. I will not have you biting the head off your colleagues because you didn't drink enough water to piss away your hangover. Now eat the sandwich and drink."

Briefly, Bruce considered arguing but ultimately decided it would be a futile effort. He took a reluctant bite of his sandwich.

Alfred sighed, relieved. "Thank you. Now – ah," the old man looked around for some place to lay the sword down but, finding no place suitable, merely sighed and threw it lazily onto the couch before pulling a nearby chair up to the desk. He made a show of straightening out his suit, ensuring Bruce had time to take a few more bites of his food before asking, "Where is Master Dick?"

Bruce paused in his chewing, his eyes fluttering in pain for a brief moment before he continued. "He went to tell Jason," he replied.

Alfred, the only other member of the family fully aware of the situation, nodded. "Ah," was his response. "I would have thought, Master Bruce, that you would fulfill that role."

Bruce sighed. He had eaten half the sandwich now – a record for him – and so threw it back down onto the plate. "I thought it would be best if he heard it from Dick."

"Drink," Alfred scooted the water glass closer to him. He didn't continue until Bruce had taken a long gulp from it. "You believe he will blame you."

Bruce set the glass down and wiped his mouth. "I believe he should."

"Bullshit," Alfred cursed, shocking Bruce. "It is high time that young man started taking some responsibility for his own actions. He's not a teenager anymore and he can't keep blaming you for every wrong in his life."

"I made him a promise, Alfred," Bruce whispered.

Alfred waved him off. "And you upheld it to the best of your ability, I am sure." He raised a hand to forestall further objections. "Bruce, you could not have stopped this. You did everything in your power to do so. This was beyond your control, much as I'm sure that pains you."

"That doesn't mean Jason won't blame me," Bruce said defeatistly.

"And so what if he does?" Alfred responded. "He's blamed you before. Even hated you. He no longer does. He will come around."

"This is different, Alfred!" Bruce snapped. "The love of his life is _dead_!"

"And if I recall correctly, Master Bruce, the last time he hated you it was because _he_ was dead," the butler replied cuttingly. "Rather hard to top that, is it not?"

Bruce ran a hand down his face. "I wish you would stop treating this so lightly."

"My god, Master Bruce," Alfred responded dramatically. "It's a wonder I survived as long as I did without Master Dick here. Someone has to have an air of positivity about this place and it most certainly isn't going to be you."

Alfred leaned forward and took Bruce's hand in his. "Bruce, I have stood by you through thick and thin. Together, we had times of great peace and prosperity. We have also weathered times of heartache and war. There was a time before the Justice League, before Jason and Tim and Dick and all of them where it was just you and I and we were alone."

"What's your point?" Bruce asked, not bothering to take his hand away.

"My point, Master Bruce," Alfred responded, "is that you are not alone. You have children who love you. Who loved you enough to take up arms for your cause. You have friends who you have fought beside for years, ready to do so again. So I need you to remember, Master Bruce, that no matter how dark the coming days may get, you are not alone anymore. However much you may like to pretend to be, _you are not alone_."

Bruce was silent for a long moment as he stared hard at his old friend. "What if I want to be alone?"

Alfred withdrew his hand and sniffed imperiously, reaching across to snatch the tumbler from Bruce's side of the desk. "Then suck it up," he replied, pouring himself a healthy glass.


	6. The Trial

**The Death of Justice**

 **Chapter 6**

 _September 25_ _th_

 _Metropolis_

 _6:07 AM_

Having spent the last two weeks desperately attempting to sneak out of Metropolis and, in turn, the country, Slade had surprised himself with how easy it was to slip back into the City of Tomorrow. He had traveled solely under the cover of night, foregoing any public transport or major highways. He even went so far as to hitchhike, offering the drivers absurd monetary compensation if they kept to the backroads. With that assistance, he had traded drivers only three times on his journey.

Or perhaps it was easier now because Slade didn't really care anymore. He was operating on muscle memory at this point, barely cognizant of anything he was doing. Had he been at full faculties, he would have killed his drivers and carefully buried the bodies to prevent them blabbing to people or he would have simply stolen a few vehicles, replacing them every hundred miles or so. Certainly, he would not have trusted the Joe blows of society to keep his travels discrete.

Yet here he was, his negligence seemingly having paid off. He had made it into Metropolis – his last driver had dropped him off a few miles outside of town and he'd walked the rest of the way – without any incidents from law enforcement or the Justice League. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the cold, rational part of his calculating brain told him they were likely too busy squabbling among themselves regarding Wonder Woman and what to do with her. The all-consuming dazed part of Slade's brain, however, was mostly just thankful. He didn't think he could defeat one of the Robin's in this state, let alone a heavy hitter.

His target was a building he had never actually visited himself. Officially, he wasn't even supposed to know it existed – Rose's primary stipulation when she went solo was that he not follow her – but he was Deathstroke, after all, and knowledge was power. Slade had been a client of the Broker long before Rose and he had been more than happy – if a little visibly reluctant – to hand over Rose's address. Slade had sat on the information for years, always wondering what constitute a 'good' reason to use it.

He had not expected this to be that reason.

Slade had set out immediately following his altercation with the Amazon, his brain on autopilot as it moved him ever closer to his destination. Now, he stood before his daughter's apartment building, gazing resolutely up at the floor he knew had been hers from across the street. The sun had not yet risen into view, though its light now cast the world in shades of gray as Metropolis slowly came into complete view. The street lamps were off. The cameras' fields of view had just widened considerably. Slade needed to get out of sight.

Slade approached the building from the side. He had never visited here but he knew Rose's apartment was on the seventh floor and that the Broker was a meticulous man. He knew there would be two possible entrances to the apartment – within the building and up the fire escape. Going inside the building meant being seen by the residents, the staff or the cameras which he was not up to. The fire escape was easier and safer.

Being sure to count very carefully – he did not want to accidentally break into a stranger's apartment in the early morning – he stopped on the nonexistent seventh floor and played with the window, checking to see if it was locked. Of course it wasn't – Rose would have left it unlocked purely based on habit – and he pressed his palms flat against the glass and pushed up. The window, unworked for nearly three weeks now, gripped tightly to its frame but gave way soon enough and he slid inside.

Slade looked around. The apartment took up the entire floor and was likely bigger than anything another woman of Rose's age would have been able to afford for decades but it was undoubtedly a twenty-one year old's apartment. Not to say it was dirty – Rose had always been a very clean, organized person – but the general feel of the room lent to a younger resident. Even a young woman as professional and mature as Rose had the age old staples. There was a miniature cactus growing happily in a concrete pot beside the sink. On the walls were an assortment of cliched saying – Slade turned his nose up at the "Live, Laugh, Love' one. There were multiple gaming consoles resting underneath the large TV – odd, considering Slade didn't know his daughter played video games. And everywhere else were other subtle nods to the age of this apartment's resident. A resident who would never enter here again.

Slade knew he had to move quickly. Now that he was here, autopilot was off and his cold, calculating self began to reassert control. Metropolis was dangerous and however much arguing the League would be doing up in their Watchtower, they would not forget about him. He needed to collect his mementos, destroy anything that might incriminate himself or Rose and then get out. He knew the Broker expected rent on the first of every month and he accepted no late payments. A cleanup and eviction crew would be sent the on the second to clean out the apartment before it was put back up on the black market for renting. Slade didn't want the Broker finding any proof of operations run against other Legionnaires.

Still, he did not move as fast as he likely should have. He had, in fact, not moved from the kitchen yet. This was her apartment. Her home. Perhaps the only place she had ever been the real her. He could feel her here, her touch and presence in every nook and cranny of this place. Soon that wouldn't exist and he would never feel that presence again.

Slade sighed, running his hand along the countertop as a series of powerful emotions welled up, threatening to overwhelm him.

Slade paused.

He ran his hand up and down the countertop, and lifted it to stare hard at his palm.

His right hand strayed downwards, clicking back the hammer of his gun and pulling it from its holster.

"You know, it was cleaning that gave me away to her, too," an unfamiliar voice, laced with amusement, cut in.

Slade's ear twitched.

Right. Lower – sitting down. Male – assume average physical form. Chest level…there!

 _BANG!_

The bullet tore desperately through the air, crossing the space between Slade and the mystery man in seconds and contacting roughly and loudly with the wood of the chair, splintering it as it burrowed through and lodged deeply into the floor. The man was not there.

The light flicked on, chasing away the shadows of the room in an instant and revealing the man's identity.

"You!" Slade cried, genuinely surprised. "What are you doing here?"

Jason Todd stood now, leaning against the couch. Slade didn't know how he'd managed to move from the chair to his current position in the time it took for Slade to pull the trigger – Slade knew that he had not been moving when he spoke – but he had and was now gazing across the small divide at him. He was not wearing his trademark smirk, rather opting for a look of unimaginable grief masked by a pathetic attempt at a smile. He had also forgone his armor, dressed comfortably in a flannel shirt and jeans instead.

"Waiting for you, actually," he replied, vainly attempting to inject some good humor into his voice. Annoyed, he made a dramatic show of checking his watch. "And it took you long enough, by the way. I've been here for days. I had to buy groceries waiting for you."

Slade scoffed, ignoring most of the dribble that poured from the man's mouth. His gun was still leveled at the man's chest but Todd seemed unperturbed. "The League sent _you_? Got to be honest, I expected more."

Oddly, Todd's face seemed to twitch lightly at the mention of the League. He forced out a laugh. "'Fraid not, Slade. The League and I are not on the best of terms at the moment."

"How'd you even know about this place?" Slade demanded, ignoring him. "It's supposed to be untraceable."

"You'd be real surprised about that, actually." Todd managed a genuine chuckle. "And I don't think you'll like the answer."

 _BANG!_

Todd cartwheeled backwards, gripping tightly to his chest, just to the left of his heart as he spasmed off the couch and onto the floor. The smoking gun still in his hand, Slade crossed the divide and peered over the couch, genuinely surprised for the second time today as Todd slowly climbed his way back to his feet, groaning as he rubbed his chest with his palm.

"Knew it was a good idea to wear the vest," he commented. Idly, he unbuttoned his shirt revealing a bulky vest the low light had hidden the contours of. Slade silently cursed. He should have aimed for his head. Todd grimaced and pulled the bullet out, holding it in his palm. "I did expect you to wait a little longer, though, if I'm being honest."

"Your mistake," Slade grunted.

 _BANG!_

Todd flew backwards, colliding roughly with one of the nightstands. The picture frame – mysteriously empty – shattered against the floor. Todd groaned pitifully from the floor, clutching his stomach. Slade knew it wouldn't kill him, but at this point he was curious enough to want answers from the man.

Slade approached, his gun still level with the man's torso.

"Why are you here?"

In response, Todd summoned a bout of energy Slade has not expected and kicked out roughly at the man's shins. Slade managed to dodge the blow that would have assuredly shattered his shin bone, but the move put him off balance. Taking advantage of the window presented to him, Todd rose up on his knees and charged forward, forcing his head into the older man's stomach and tackling him to the ground. Todd rose up, throwing a wild punch at the man's face but his angle was off and Slade barely had to move his head to dodge the blow.

Pistol still in hand, Slade brought his hand up with alarming speed, violently whipping Todd across the face with the weapon's barrel. The young man cried out, reflexively gripping his head with his hand and reeling backward. His legs still pinned beneath the younger man's legs, Slade through a punch into Todd's chest. Absorbed largely by the vest, however, it did not manage to throw the younger man off of him.

Slade groaned, sitting up. Discarding the gun for now, he gripped tightly to either side of the dazed man's face and headbutted him roughly. Todd reeled back, losing his position atop the man and Slade took full advantage.

Gripping tightly to the folds of the younger man's shirt, Slade pulled him to his feet – he was practically holding a limp, hundred and fifty pound bag – and threw him against the door to Rose's bedroom. Slade stepped back and aimed a vicious kick at the younger man's torso, the force of which shattered the door behind him, sending the younger man flying into the room. Leaning down as he walked, Slade withdrew a secondary pistol from his boot and crouched down, pressing the barrel into Todd's head.

"Give me a good reason not to kill you, Bat-Brat," he demanded.

Weakly, Todd managed to lift his hand, pointing vaguely in the direction of the closet door. Slade cast a sideways glance at it and then shook the younger man roughly.

"I said a _good_ reason!" he snapped.

Todd chucked weakly and pointed again towards the closet door. "Don't judge a book by its cover, Slade," he coughed. Energy spent, he collapsed backwards onto the floor, his breathing erratic.

Slade growled and jabbed him painfully on the leg. The man groaned, but his reflexes were slowed and he didn't jump to respond. Content that he would not be jumped when he turned his back, Slade stood and wandered over to the door, gun raised defensively in front of his face.

Carefully, the Terminator reached out, gripped the doorknob tightly and threw the door open, stepping back as he did so, prepared for anything. Except for what he saw – which was nothing. It was just a closet, a random assortment of clothes hung on a pine rod, a pile of dirty, crumpled shirts in the floor and a pile of random junk scattered throughout.

Oddly though, the clothes weren't all Rose's. She was not a girly girl by any stretch of the imagination – generally preferring t-shirts and denim over dresses skirts – but some clothes were easily identifiable as female. The cut of the shirt, the patterns displayed on them and the tank tops were clearly Rose's. But there other clothes there, the long sleeve t's, the flannel, the jackets that were very clearly male.

Plucking a random shirt from the rack he examined it, running his hands over the material. "What the fuck is this, Todd?" he demanded, turning on heel, the shirt still in his hand.

Slade took in the sight of Todd, still lying practically limp on the floor, feebly holding a folded photograph out to him. It was folded in such a way that Slade could not see what it was of, but there was nothing quite like the shape of a polaroid. Growling, Slade discarded the shirt and plucked the photograph angrily from the younger man's hand, silently enjoying how the weakened man's arm fell limply to the ground.

Slade carefully unfolded the photo. His throat tightened as he took it in, some invisible force wrapping around his heart. His little girl was there, her hair free and flowing. She held an overlarge stick of cotton candy in her hand and her smile…Slade could never recall a time when she had smiled like that. So engrossed was he in the image of his daughter that it took Slade a moment to register someone else was in the photo. A young man with ruffled black hair and a white streak through it had his arm thrown around Rose's shoulder – and for once, she didn't seem disagreeable to this.

Slade's eye roamed over the photo, dissecting every possible meaning of it in an instant and connecting it all with the clothes he'd just found in his daughter's closet. Realization set in. Slade exhaled deeply through his nose.

"Well now I have an entirely different reason to kill you," Slade muttered.

From his position on the floor, Todd made a noise halfway between a choke and a laugh, writhing on the floor as he did. "Come on, Slade," he forced out through that same sound. "No heart for young love?"

Slade rolled his one good eye and, gun still in hand, crouched down to stare the now more cognizant young man in the face. "Why are you here?"

Todd looked at him somewhat condescendingly. With a considerable amount of effort, he braced himself against the floor and pushed up, sliding back and coming to rest with his back against the bed. Slade saw no reason to stop him. This had become far more than a simple fight.

Holding his stomach and grimacing, Todd replied, "This is my home, Slade."

Then the young man sighed.

"At least it was." He gazed emptily around the room, as if there was nothing in it. "Without her, it's just a bunch of rooms."

"And a foreclosure, considering she was paying for it," Slade sniped.

Todd chuckled. "That too. What can I say? The superhero business doesn't pay as well as the assassin one."

"Keep smart mouthing, kid," Slade grunted. "I'll kill you for free."

Todd gave him an odd look, somewhere between amusement and pain. "She said something similar the first time we met."

"Should have made good on that promise," he muttered in reply, "and save me the grief."

Todd looked away. "I don't think either of are gonna be spared much grief anytime soon."

"Don't make me hit you again," Slade growled. Todd didn't respond. Sighing, the Terminator stood back up to his full height. "Look, I don't know why you were here, skulking in the shadows of your own apartment, and frankly I don't care. I'm here for evidence that could come back to bite me and then I'm gone."

Todd help up a single finger, grimaced and stretched, reaching underneath the bed with an accompanying series of groans. From underneath the bed, he pulled a military green duffel bag that looked to be stuffed to the gills with an odd assortment of books, weapons, armor and many other things.

"Anything and everything you or Ravager ever did related to any other major player in your field that could lead back to you when the Broker cleans this place out," he said, waving his hand over the bag grandly. He dropped the showman act at Slade's blank look. "Like I said, I've been waiting for you."

"Thanks," the Terminator deadpanned, reaching down and plucking the bag off the floor. He gave no indication of its immense wait. Without another word, he turned on heel and marched towards the door.

"I also included a few keepsakes," Todd called after him cheekily. "A couple pictures, her first hunting knife – she said that was a gift from you – and a custom made rifle she was planning on giving you for Christmas. Top quality stuff."

Slade turned around, glaring at him viciously and eliciting only a genuine laugh from Todd.

"I knew your macho man persona was too frail to ask for them."

Slade dropped the bag, eliciting a large thud as it collided with the ground. Now fully facing the younger man, Slade approached and crouched down to eye level. "Why are you here, Todd?" he asked again, quieter this time and without the annoyed growl. "Why are you waiting for me?"

Todd visibly sobered. "Need to know what you're gonna do next," he replied simply.

Slade scowled. "Thought you said the League didn't send you."

An ugly look flitted over the young man's face. "They didn't," he all but spat. "Believe me. But I have a vested interest in you right now. I need to know what you're going to do."

"Why should I tell you anything?" he demanded.

"Respect for her," Todd suggested, gesturing to the photo the older man still held in his hands. Slade stiffened, not having realized he was still carrying the worn picture. "It's the least you can do really. In death. You certainly never respected her in life."

The hammer of Slade's gun clicked ominously and his one good eye stared coldly into Todd's own. "Watch your mouth, boy," he growled, "before I put a bullet in it."

"Shut the fuck up, Slade," Todd snapped, the first example of true anger he had shown yet. "You don't get to pretend now that she's gone that you ever showed her the respect or love she deserved! Not to me. Not to someone who knows better."

"I gave her everything she needed!" Slade exclaimed. "And more! She was a street rat when I found her, a homeless beggar! And look what she became!"

"Ohhh, bravo!" Todd clapped sarcastically. "You took an innocent girl that the world had shafted and drove the shaft farther up her ass. You turned her into a weapon, pointed her at whoever needed to go down only ever pointed out what she did wrong."

Slade smugly spread his arms, gesturing to the large room around them. "It seems to have paid off, Bat-Brat. You should know more than me."

Todd rolled his eyes. "Yeah, great Slade. You gave her a roof over her head and a never-ending flow of blood money. Father of the year. Except you weren't Slade. You do realize that, right? You do realize what she really needed?"

Slade was silent, staring resolutely into the hard eyes of the man his daughter had apparently loved.

"She needed a father."

Slade breathed out a shaky breath, silently cursing.

"But!" Todd exclaimed in an obnoxiously chirpy voice as he jumped up onto his feet. "She didn't get one. Ever. She died knowing that, at the end of the day, the only caregiver she ever had was her."

"I guess we both failed her then," Slade sniped. "Eh, Todd?"

Todd clutched at his heart dramatically. "Ooh. Oh, yeah, that hurts. A year and a half of love and support is just _sooooo_ much worse than twenty-one years of abandonment and neglect."

Slade charged forward a few steps, grabbing hold of the man's shirt with one hand and shaking him roughly as he pressed the gun barrel into his forehead.

Todd had the audacity to scoff. "If you were gonna kill me, Slade, you would have done it already," he said calmly. "So put that thing down and accept that the things I'm saying to you are true."

Slade's breathing was hard and his eye was narrowed as he stared into Todd's much larger, much calmer irises. Slowly, hesitantly, Slade withdrew. He let go of Todd's shirt and stepped back, the gun still pointed squarely at the younger man's forehead. Finally, the gun fell too, coming to rest at the man's side. He didn't put it away but he didn't feel it would be used again.

"Good," Todd said snappishly, unable to hide the slight breath of relief in his voice. "Now, if you're done feeling sorry for yourself, there may yet be a way you can make it up to her."

Slade made an unpleasant face and scoffed. "She's dead, kid. A little late to clean the slate."

"Yeah," Todd muttered, running a hand down his face as he momentarily forgot himself. He shook himself. "Yeah, yeah she is. And what do you think she'll say if you up and join her before the week is out."

Slade furrowed his brow at him.

Todd threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "What, you think I don't know what you're thinking? You think I don't see her face every time I close my eyes? You think I don't see _Diana's_ face in my dreams? You wanna right the wrongs, Slade? You wanna make it up to Rose?"

Hesitantly, Slade nodded.

"Then don't," Todd stated emphatically.

Again, Slade furrowed his brow. "Don't what?" he snapped.

"Don't anything," Todd replied. "Whatever half formed notions of a plan are scurrying around in your head, kill them. Get out of Metropolis, get out of the country, leave all of this shit behind. _Live_. For her."

Slade was silent for a long moment, contemplating. Finally, he looked up into the young man's firm eyes and asked, "What about you?"

Todd rubbed at his chin, an evil half smile playing on his face. His other hand fished into his pocket and withdrew a small, rectangular plastic card. A Lexcorp Access Card? Where the hell had he gotten that? "I've got an appointment with Luthor."

He dropped the card back into his pocket.

Slade scoffed. "Real hypocrite, aren't you kid? Telling me to fly the coop while you get to take revenge?"

Todd rolled his eyes, an ugly look coming over his face. "To be real honest with you, Slade, this isn't about Rose. It's about me."

"What are you –?"

"She died!" Todd cut him off. "Don't you get it, old man!? _She died._ I told her to take care of herself, to be careful, to watch her back! And what did she do!? She picked a fight with Wonder Woman! _Fucking_ Wonder Woman! So I don't care if I'm being a hypocrite, Slade! The love of my life is _dead_ , and if the closest I can get to some fucking closure is making sure her heartless bastard of a father doesn't get himself killed on a half-cocked revenge scheme, you can bet your super soldiered ass _I'm gonna take it_!"

His tirade over, Todd was left a heavily breathing, red-faced mess, standing stock still in front of the older man and running a hand through his now very frazzled hair. Having taken a few seconds to calm himself back down, Todd sighed, ran a hand down his face and prepared himself for Slade's inevitable response. Would it be amusement, condescension, anger?

None of these, actually. In fact, it never came at all.

The assassin stared at him long and hard for a very long moment. His face was unreadable. His eyes were not narrowed. His mouth was not tightened. The lines on his face were not creased. He showed no emotion at all. Finally, without a word, the man slid his gun back into its concealed position in his boot, turned around and walked towards the shattered remains of the door where he had left the duffel bag.

Leaning down, he picked up the bag, paused long enough to gently set the photo of Jason and Rose on the dresser and then moved to leave.

Only he paused again, in the middle of the doorframe. He didn't turn around or even incline his head. "Don't die, kid," he said. "But if you do…tell Rose I said I'm sorry."

Then he was gone to places unknown hopefully for the rest of his life. Jason truly didn't think he'd be able to handle the excitement of seeing him again. The younger man, somewhat amazed he'd managed to do what he actually came here to do, ran a nerve-wracked hand down his face. A broken chuckle escaped his lips. What a day.

What followed were several hours of meandering around the place that – only a week ago – he had considered his home. He sat in every seat, lounged on the bed, made a breakfast Rose would have gushed over so much that he would know she actually hated it and in general trailed his hands across every nook and cranny of the apartment, as if to absorb whatever lingering trace of her was left.

There was nothing here for him anymore. If he never saw Metropolis again, it would be too soon.

Still, there was one thing he had to do.

The bag he'd given to Deathstroke had been the honest article, which in and of itself had been very hard to procure. Rose was a master at hiding things – particularly incriminating things. Jason had, had to tear the apartment apart – even going so far as to pry open hollowed spots of drywall – to find every weapon, data file, armor piece, laptop, cash deposit and anything else that may have led back to Deathstroke.

Sans a very particular set of items. One of them was a full set of Deathstroke's armor. Rose had kept it around as a contingency for the very unlikely possibility that Slade would be in town without his armor. Jason had…specific purposes for the armor. More importantly, however, was a piece of Rose's armor.

He held it in his hands now, turning it over in his hands, running his fingers across every groove. It was heavy duty, high quality, military issue stuff. It had cost her a fortune, but considering what it was protecting, it was well worth the cost. Even Bruce didn't have a piece of this quality.

Ravager's helmet was the same infamous colors as her father's – orange and black, split straight down the middle. A half-mask – unlike her father's – it came down only far enough to cover the top of the nose, much like the Bat's cowl except less angry looking. It would require some modifications to adjust for size and, of course, a respray, but it would fit the Red Hood just fine.

"Hood's aren't supposed to cover your whole face anyway," Jason whispered to himself sadly. How often she had told him that.

 _September 25_ _th_

 _The Watchtower_

 _9:00 AM_

The League had always strived to be as un-bureaucratic as possible. It was the firm belief of everyone involved that it lead to little more than stagnation, inefficiency and, most of all, corruption. They had paperwork, of course – that was to be expected – but no Leaguer had to check in with another Leaguer before doing something or otherwise receive permission to take on any given mission. At least, that's how it had been in the early days of the Justice League.

When there had only been seven of them, it had been very easy to get by with only the financial and more…apologetic paperwork. Even when the League had grown to accommodate new members, the bureaucracy had been kept to a minimum. Then had come the Ops teams. Full time superheroes who were either not old enough or otherwise ineligible for League membership who wanted a greater hand in protecting the world, citing that they put themselves in danger in their own towns every night anyway. It had been a hard point to argue, particularly in the case of the Bat Children. The Ops teams had been formed and before long the Justice League and its affiliates boasted forty-one members all told – and that wasn't counting Red Hood and his Outlaws, who, in fact, caused the League their most paperwork. With a membership pool that large – and many varying age demographics therein – bureaucracy became an unwelcome necessity. Now Leaguers were only allowed the respite of having free reign over a particular territory – Gotham for example – but League assignments were no longer a free and open option. Missions were assigned to those best suited to the task, members had to report in on any assignments taken or jobs done in the name of the League – particularly the Ops members – and the comings and goings of every League member in and out of the Watchtower were heavily logged.

In certain cases – most cases even – the Justice League's newfound bureaucratic addition was an unsung hero, helping to ease along operations, further relationships with the United Nations – something that came in very handy as the League's international operations began to become more public – and varying governments as well as keep track of a wide assortment of overenthusiastic superheroes. In other cases, it was a much bemoaned pain in the ass.

Diana's unexpected and drastic actions in Canada had made it into the ears of every Leaguer and Ops member minutes after it had happened. It had been the talk of the Watchtower when Jason Todd's illicit romance with the deceased wasn't being discussed. A vast array of opinions and emotions had been put on display and an even wider selection of possible repercussions had been debated. Everything from expulsion, to demotion, to community service had been discussed as an option.

Discussed, that is, unofficially.

 _Officially_ , the League – or the Founding Seven in this case – had not had the chance to meet and discuss the issue. Instead, three of them had been knee deep in the paperwork Diana had unintentionally dumped into their laps. The damages she had caused to the Canadian highway system and the vast number of personal property costs she'd accrued were being handled by Bruce as he now desperately reworked his finances in a bid to pay it off as secretly as possible. He'd had to make three new shell corporations this week and five new "shell projects" for Wayne Tech to take on to get away with it and even then he was paying Fox overtime to keep the Board distracted while the paperwork was being shuffled to file cabinets that hadn't been touched since Watergate. Public Relations following the incident were a disaster, and Dinah was left to put out the fire. Countless out-of-focus iPhone videos had hit the web, depicting Wonder Woman flying down the highway at breakneck speeds and stopping cars at breakneck velocity. No footage had been recovered of Rose's death, thankfully – Dinah didn't know what she would have done if that had been the case – but that didn't stop a vast array of speculation as to what was going on – which was almost, but not quite worse. The fact remained, though, that there _had_ been a death and the Canadian government knew about it. And, because it was Canada, so too did the rest of the world, resulting in an international PR disaster with the United Nations. The League had always maintained a strict policy of detainment for all its prisoners, and it was that particular policy that had allowed them to stay together in the days of their conception. In the early days, the Justice League had been considered by most to be little more than an illegal group of well-funded vigilantes who far too frequently overstepped every legal bound on the planet. It had been their complete lack of a body count that had granted them any reprieve. Diana violating that policy led to many a problem. Which is where J'onn came in, taking over control of any and all paperwork related to Rose's death. With Deathstroke in the wind with no likely intentions to stop by a records office, it fell on the Martian's shoulders to file the girl's death. A headache in and of itself as he knew practically nothing about the girl. Jason Todd had come in handy, capable of supplying some much needed data – this being the only interaction he'd had with a member of the League outside of his own family in the entire time – but the more empirical facts he simply didn't know. On top of that was the nightmare the world called the United Nations banging on his door every minute of the day in a desperate bid to understand what was happening. J'onn empathized.

All of that added together equaled five days before an "emergency" meeting of the Founding Seven was even remotely possible. Bruce, Dinah and J'onn were all already present, of course, not having had the chance to leave the Watchtower since their trial by paperwork had begun. Barry and Oliver arrived together a short time after the call had gone out, the both of them wearing matching, smug grins at the sight of the exhausted trio. Under the death glares of their comrades they managed to tone down the smug smiles but they did not leave. Diana was, of course, the last to arrive, walking into the conference room just under an hour after the call had gone out. By unspoken agreement, however, the others decided that no mention of the day's issue would be made. Instead, they contented themselves with cracking jokes at the exhausted trio's expense and receiving death glares for said jokes.

Finally, Diana walked in wearing civilian clothes of all things. It was a rare occasion that Diana wore anything other than her armor, not having much of a life outside of the job but here she was wearing a sharp suit, every bit the hardened warrior in pinstripes as she was in enchanted metal. Meetings between old friends such as these had no strict rulesets or policies and the rest of the Founding Seven were scattered to and fro throughout the room with only Bruce choosing to sit in his own chair. J'onn was hovering, cross legged in the hollowed center of the table, his eyes closed as he attempted to call on some unknown peace. Oliver was splayed out on the table itself, wearing civilian clothes as well and tapping away on his phone in boredom whilst Barry sat on the floor, his head resting against the table as he played catch with himself, bouncing a ball continuously off the wall. For her part, Dinah was seated near to Oliver's head and was staring off into the distance, idly playing with his hair.

Diana took her seat and seemingly cast a spell on the rest of the group. Barry's ball stopped bouncing and he rolled his neck before standing up and taking a leaning position against the wall. Oliver put his phone away and sat up, not moving from his position on the table and Dinah's gaze focused, bringing her back into the present money. J'onn and Bruce did not visibly respond, the former continuing to meditate and the latter remaining stiff in his chair.

"Dinah," Bruce requested.

The woman sighed audibly, cracked her neck and stood, idly shooing Oliver further down the table to allow her room to work.

"Excuse me," Diana cut in, somewhat miffed. "But I believe I am the Chairwoman of the League. Surely I should –"

"As you are the topic of this discussion, Chairwoman," Dinah cut her off sharply, "it falls to me to lead this discussion. You will have your chance to speak, I assure you."

"But I –"

"J'onn," Dinah cut her off again, earning a cold look from the Amazon. The Martian, for his part, did not open his eyes but hummed inquisitively in response to show he was listening. "I do hate to interrupt your meditation, but you're blocking the projector."

Silently, J'onn sighed but opened his eyes and lowered himself until he was standing on the ground. Without any comment, he turned and walked towards his chair, phasing through the table without ceremony before taking his seat.

"Thank you," Dinah bowed her head. She cleared her throat. "Now. I believe we all know why we're here."

"Some of us better than others clearly." Barry managed to chuckle two times before the withering looks of the Dark Knight and the Black Canary wilted his laughter.

Turning back to the table, Dinah keyed a command into her computer terminal and the holographic projector in the center of the table hummed to life, broadcasting a life size image of Ravager, arrayed in full armor. Dinah keyed in another command the image moved slightly to accommodate another life size image, this one of Rose Wilson in civilian clothes.

"The death of Rose Wilson."

Diana made a noise and looked ready to intercede again but Dinah held up a hand to forestall her.

"All of us will have our turn to speak after the facts have been relayed, Diana. Please have patience."

The Amazon looked decidedly miffed, but bowed her head in acceptance.

Dinah cleared her throat again. "Rose Wilson, alias Ravager. Daughter of Slade Wilson, alias Deathstroke. Known assassin for hire, she has been connected to dozens of murders and is known to be guilty of just under two dozen, including Clark Kent's."

Reflexively, as if a weight had been placed around their necks, every head in the room bowed.

Dinah shook herself. "Notoriously slippery, she has never been apprehended by any League operatives. Should she ever have been caught, the evidence arrayed against her would have guaranteed her a sentence of hundreds of years, ensuring she would never have breathed free air again. As it is, her whereabouts were completely unknown by any League affiliate."

Unable to help himself, Oliver cracked a small smile and choked back a chuckle. "Well," he drawled. "Not _no one_."

Bruce and Dinah alike turned dark looks onto him. "A discussion for another day, Oliver," Dinah hissed.

Oliver raised his hands in surrender and then motioned for her to continue.

"Some three weeks ago, she took a contract alongside her father to assassinate Superman. She completed the job and the two of them disappeared until five days ago, when they were spotted crossing into the Canadian border."

Dinah closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"To the matter of today's discussion. Wonder Woman, without League approval or even a report to the proper channels, took it upon herself to track down the duo on her own. She followed them several miles into Canada where engaged them, caused millions of dollars in public and personal property damage and willingly took the life of Rose Wilson."

Dinah keyed in another command, replacing the full body images with a prone one of the same girl, a bloody stab wound in her stomach. Barry winced, turning his head away and Bruce shook his own head in disdain. Diana, for her part, stared resolutely at the girl, displaying no emotion.

"The matter on the table," Dinah said in a dead voice. "How do we respond to this? Publicly, privately and personally."

Tentatively, Barry raised his hand.

Dinah rolled her eyes. "Just say it, Barry, you don't need to raise your hand."

Barry cleared his throat. "Right, yeah. Uh…do we need to address those in a particular order? Cause, if not, I suggest we start with the easiest and talk about what our public stance on this is gonna be."

Oliver shook his head. "Not that easy, Bar." In a louder voice, he addressed the rest of his compatriots. "We can't give an answer to the public until we have an answer to give to them. Which requires us to make a decision regarding what we're going to personally first."

"Well we need to make the decision fast," J'onn supplied. "The United Nations wants a statement yesterday and we cannot continue to stall this for long. Frankly, we're lucky any one of the varying governments haven't leaked the details to the press. If we don't act soon, the public will make the decision for us."

Dinah nodded. "Agreed." Determinedly, she turned to stare into Diana's eyes. "Well, Diana? What say you in your defense?"

Diana narrowed her eyes. "Defense of what?" she demanded. "Justice? Fairness?"

"You took a life, Diana," Bruce growled. "You violated our most sacred rule."

"Your rule, Bruce," Diana snapped. "As I told you before. Your rule. Not the League's."

" _Yes_ , the League's, Diana," Dinah stated. Diana looked at her in shock. "Maybe never publicly stated or written in stone but it is _our_ rule."

"It's kinda the foundation we were built on if you remember," Oliver quipped.

Diana looked around incredulously, genuinely surprised at what she was hearing. "You cannot genuinely expect me to defend myself for this? You can't genuinely tell me the lot of you would not have done the same?" She was standing now, leaning hard against the table.

"You know very well, Diana," Dinah replied, "that we wouldn't have."

Diana looked ready to say something more but J'onn beat her to the punch. "Whether or not we would have done the same is irrelevant," he stated firmly, staring hard at Diana. "We didn't. You did. That is the point of our discussion today and it is not one based on conjecture. We must make our decision based on facts and evidence."

"So this is a trial?" Diana demanded.

"Yes, Diana," Bruce replied. "For all intents and purposes, you are on trial for murder."

Diana through her hands up in the air. "Unbelievable," she muttered and began to pace. "From Bruce, I expected this, but the rest of you!?"

She stopped pacing and turned to Barry, still leaning against the wall. "Barry," she all but pleaded. "You were there. You fought them. You saw _him_. You can't seriously blame me for this."

His arms folded, Barry shrugged. "I'm not saying I blame you, Di. But I've testified on plenty of cases I didn't blame the murderer. Fathers who killed their daughter's rapists, sons who killed their abusive fathers. But a murder is a murder, Diana. I testified to the truth of those cases and saw them be put away. And in my opinion, this is murder. I don't treat it lightly."

"Which brings up a point of discussion," Dinah interceded, cutting Diana off before she could respond. "Was this murder?"

"Don't see how it could be anything else," Oliver muttered, earning himself a hard glare from Diana.

"Self-defense," J'onn supplied quietly.

Bruce shook his head, keying a command into his own console. The prone form of Rose vanished, replaced by the granny footage of a traffic camera. The United Nations and the League were the only ones in possession of this footage. WayneTech had encrypted it to high heaven to ensure no hackers could get a hold of it and leak it.

The footage depicted the entirety of the battle, from the impact of Deathstroke's car with Diana up to the argument she had with Bruce. Bruce continued to tap away at his computer, skipping over the majority of the fight and stopping as the final few bouts with Deathstroke began.

The six of them watched, enraptured as Deathstroke all but batted Diana's blows away, clearly the more effective fighter, until Diana aimed a well-placed blow on him, forcing him back. In the time such a blow granted her, Diana turned her attention to the heavily injured girl on the ground. Barry and Dinah both turned away as she delivered the vicious blow to the girl's chest and Bruce stopped the footage.

"I believe we can rule out self-defense," the Dark Knight commented dryly.

"Your defense?" Dinah asked Diana almost reluctantly.

Diana stared back resolutely and remained silent.

Dinah sighed. "Why'd you do it, Diana? What was your reasoning? What was the purpose? Give us something to work with here. Give us _anything_!"

Diana ground her teeth and rolled her eyes. "Strategic," was her reply.

"Strategic?" Dinah repeated, dumfounded. "How the hell was it strategic?"

Behind her, Oliver actually chuckled. "She was losing," he stated.

All eyes turned to him, most of them curious, one of them furious.

Oliver quirked an eyebrow at them. "You guys all watched the same video, right?" he asked. "Slade was wiping the floor with her. I don't think I've ever seen her fight that badly."

Diana growled, eliciting another chuckle from Oliver.

"Let me guess, Di," the Emerald Archer said. "You needed to throw Slade off his game and the easiest way to do that was to kill his defenseless daughter who you had already knocked out of the fight. Am I right?"

Diana looked away angrily, her silence more than answer enough.

"And you would have gotten away with it too," Oliver said, putting on a lispy accent, "if it weren't for that meddling Bat."

Dinah slapped him upside the head and glared at him, earning only a dimpled grin in reply.

"There were other ways to do that, Di," Barry said sadly.

"None as quick, easy or deserved," Diana replied harshly.

"You could have just as simply put the knife in the girl's leg," Oliver countered. "No father, even one as heartless as Slade, likes to see their children in pain. Hell, with Rose's healing factor, you could have done any number of things to her that she'd have healed from. Pretty much anything short of putting a knife in her heart, actually."

While the rest of them looked somewhat queasy at Oliver's gruesome solution, Bruce spoke up, turning to face Diana fully.

"You," the Dark Knight stated firmly, leaning forward in his seat, "don't have the right to decide who deserves to die. None of us do."

"Like hell I don't!" she snapped. "That girl you called defenseless, Oliver!? She killed Clark! She's killed countless innocents! She is a master assassin and her one death is nothing compared to the slew of death she has left in her wake! I did us a favor! I did the world a favor! If you want me to feel guilty about killing a monster like that, you'll have to provide a lot better evidence than that she was in a little bit of pain!"

Breathing heavily and now truly steaming, she looked around the room. Perhaps she had been expecting to see looks of agreement, acceptance or even admiration. She saw none of these. Of them, J'onn was the only one to look her in the eyes, his warm pupils reflecting only disappointment. The rest were staring at their shoes or the wall or anywhere but her. She was alone here and she knew it.

Diana shook her head, disbelieving. "You can rot. All of you. And the next time one of us dies because you're too cowardly to do what's necessary, don't come crying to me."

That said, she turned and stormed out.

Dinah shut down the projector and pinched the bridge of her nose. "That could have gone better," she sighed.

"On the contrary," J'onn replied, standing, "I happen to think that went very well."

"Agreed," Bruce nodded. "I expected far worse."

Oliver snorted and threw his legs off the table, propelling himself into a standing position. "What were you thinking Bruce?" he laughed and then put on a very loud and showy voice. "An all-out, Founding Seven fight in the Watchtower! This Sunday, _Sunday_ , SUNDAY!"

Bruce, for his part, only replied, "Something like that."

Barry and Oliver traded an incredulous look.

"Where do you think she'll go?" J'onn asked.

Dinah shrugged helplessly. "Who knows? It's practically impossible to predict her next move at this point."

"Not really," Barry disagreed, stepping closer to the table. "We know what her goal is. We know she'll go looking for Deathstroke. Anything she does next will just be in service of that."

"Which brings us back around to our decision," Bruce supplied. "Whatever we decide today could make or break her efforts in regards to Deathstroke. We've all seen the evidence and we know what her plea was. Do any of us doubt that Rose Wilson's death was a murder?"

A number of intense looks were traded between the five of them but no one voiced a contradiction.

"Then our decision is clear," Bruce stated solemnly. "In good conscience, we cannot allow Diana to retain access to League resources when we know they will be used for the hunting and execution of an individual. All in favor of expulsion?"

Five voices rang out in agreement.

And so seven had become five.

 _September 25_ _th_

 _Washington DC_

 _11:34 AM_

When Diana had forsaken her home in favor of assisting the mortal world, she had needed an identity. It had been Steve Trevor – Diana smiled sadly. Even now, the memory of her old friend still tugged at her heart – who had given it to her. It had been a random, off the cuff rattling of a random name based on some naïve mutterings she'd told him a dozen times. Diana Prince. She'd barely used the name, preferring the fearsome visage of Wonder Woman over the professional persona of Ms. Prince.

She'd had many jobs over the years. First and foremost, she had been a soldier. Then a journalist. Then a chef – Themysciran food sent mortals into a frenzy. For a time, she'd even owned a boutique but the work had disagreed with her and she soon gave it up. Now, she boasted an entirely new job that she'd never considered a possibility. Themyscira had cut down the veil a few years ago and officially rejoined the world. As the only real candidate for the position, Diana had been selected as her home's ambassador.

Entrusted with the relaying of the Queen's will to the larger world, Diana had overseen the construction of the Themysciran embassy – within which she held a very large office – attended untold meetings with various world leaders and a mind numbing amount of press conferences, as well as mediated on behalf of her home with the United Nations with whom negotiations were slow. Hippolyta, as good a Queen as she was, was not very familiar with the modern ideas of open borders and free trade. She was, unfortunately, stuck in the mindset of "Themyscira first". Diana didn't necessarily disagree with the mindset, but it did make negotiations with the UN…difficult. She also – due to her job – had a home in Washington DC. A very nice home.

It was there that she was currently steaming. That is to say, it was there she was currently taking out her unbridled fury on any and every inanimate object she owned. She had the wherewithal enough to stay in the living room, thankfully. Everything in there was little more than a decade old – she kept her true keepsakes in the basement – but she would still need to replace many a piece of furniture by the time the day was over.

Her mind was truly boggled. Whatever she had expected at the meeting, it had not been that. Diana was no fool. She knew the vast majority of the Justice League was weak and soft-hearted in regards to true justice – Bruce in particular refused to even consider the concept in the most extreme of situations – but she had not expected obstinacy of that degree. To think Oliver – a man who she knew had, had to do dark things to survive his time washed up on that island of his – and J'onn – a veteran of a war that had wiped out his species – would so strongly oppose her, going so far as to not even attempt to empathize with her cause. It was maddening!

In fact, to call it her cause was an insult in and of itself. It was not her cause. It was _their_ cause! It was everyone's cause who wished to see a better and happier tomorrow. A tomorrow with less monsters in it. How could they not understand that what she had done, she had done for them. For society's betterment. She was not some cruel, heartless killer who had killed a young woman simply because she wanted to. She had killed a killer. And Diana was not one to lose sleep over such a thing.

Letting lose another scream of inarticulate rage, Diana through a wild punch at the back of a very luxurious chair she'd bought a French antique auction some four years ago. The poor thing had never experienced anything more stressful than a particularly overweight man sitting down in it in a huff. So when the fury of the Amazon Princess connected with it so viscerally, it flew backwards across the room so speedily that upon contact with the wall, it shattered into a hundred splintery pieces. Diana fumed all the more.

Just at that moment, though, there came a knock at the door. Diana might have moved to answer it – though in all likelihood, she really wouldn't have – but she had not the time as whomever was at the door opened it of their own accord, inviting themselves into her home. Prepared to unleash her tidal wave of fury onto whomever had barged into her home, Diana was very shocked to see a familiar head of straw colored, blonde hair.

"Kara?" Diana asked, shocked. "What are you doing here?"

"Uh," she trailed off, gazing around the trashed room. "Currently? Wondering how good your insurance is."

Diana chuckled humorlessly. "I'm an ambassador. It's amazing," she replied. Helplessly, she splayed her arms out, gesturing to the mess. "I'd offer you a place to sit but…fresh out."

"Don't worry about it," Kara smiled reassuringly.

Diana sighed deeply. "What are you doing here, Kara?" she asked again in a defeatist tone.

Kara wrung her hands together. Carefully, hesitantly, she replied, "I came to see you. I…uh…I guess you haven't heard yet? The…announcement."

Diana made a humored noise. "Communicator's been off since I left my…meeting." Again, she gestured to the remains of her living room. "I'm a bit high strung at the moment, if you couldn't tell."

Kara let out a single, shrill laugh, clearly forced. "Yeah, I can see. Um…yeah. Well, Dinah made the announcement just a bit ago," Kara said softly, more hesitant than ever. "You've…You've been expelled from the League, Diana."

Like a switch had been flipped, the air of defeat left the Amazon, replaced with the same wild fury that had been running rampant in her living room. "What!?" she roared. "They can't do that! I'm the Chairwoman of the League! I have to be present for that decision at the least!"

"Yeah, they addressed that," Kara replied, trying hard to keep her voice level in the wake of Diana's screams. "They said you stormed out before they'd made the decision but that you'd been present for the discussion. Dinah – she's the new Chairwoman – she said the Seven…well, the rest of the Seven were unanimous. They voted you out and voted her in."

An inarticulate scream of rage tore its way out of Diana's lungs. Stalking forward she gripped the edge of a beautiful French cabinet so hard that it splintered and threw it clear across the room, shattering it against the wall on the other side and leaving a sizeable hole in the drywall. Her shoulders heaving with the strain of long, angry breaths, Diana found herself desperately wishing she had not destroyed the bar cart in the early moments of her rage. She could really use a drink.

With little else to do, she leaned back against the wall, resting her head on the cool, painted surface, desperately trying to calm her breathing. Her eyes were closed in a mixture of pain, anger and possibly disappointment.

"Pathetic," she whispered.

"I'm sorry?" Kara questioned, not having quite heard her.

"Pathetic!" the Amazon snapped, startling the younger girl. "All of them! Just…pathetic."

She lapsed back into silence, leaning her head back against the wall and closing her eyes again.

"It was," Kara began and then trailed off. "It was because of Rose Wilson, wasn't it?"

Diana opened her eyes and looked at her sharply, causing Kara to take a frightened step back.

"Everyone knows about it," she defended. "It's all anyone's been talking about. Well, that and Jason's…well, you know."

Diana snorted and rolled her eyes. "Yeah," she deadpanned, the worn photograph clear in her mind, "I know."

Kara was hesitant. "So…was it?" She elucidated under the weight of Diana's heavy gaze. "Rose Wilson. Was…was she the reason?"

Diana worked her jaw in something between anger and amusement. "Of course it was Rose Wilson, Kara. What else it could be? Those spineless cowards. They couldn't handle it. Justice. True justice. They play at it like children but when the hammer drops, they run from it, too afraid to do what's necessary. But I suppose you disagree and think I'm a heartless monster for what I did."

Kara was silent for a time. Long enough for Diana to lapse back into pained silence, her eyes closed as she continued to lean against the wall with her arms folded. It was clear she thought she already knew the girl's answer.

"Clark would," the younger girl finally replied, eliciting a pained wince from the Amazon. "But he'd be wrong."

Diana furrowed her brow and opened her eyes to stare at Kara in surprise.

Kara sighed. "Don't get me wrong," she placated. "I respect Clark. I respect his dedication to his ideals. But they were Kansas farm boy ideals. Not Kryptonian ones. On Krypton, death was…part of the culture. Duels to the death were fought over infractions to honor, land disputes, even scientific differences. My father fought three duels just in my life and I know he fought more than a couple for the right to marry my mom."

Diana narrowed her eyes at that tidbit, but allowed the girl to continue.

Kara wrung her hands and fished for the words. Words she'd for so long wanted to say but had found no audience to hear them. "Violence on Krypton wasn't rare. There were murderers, rapists, assaults. The same as on Earth. But our crime percentile was in the low teens. We didn't abide by violent criminals. Once you reached a certain age, anything more than a drunken barfight was punishable by death. No exceptions. Assault, murder, especially rape…you'd either be beheaded or condemned to the phantom zone. If this were Krypton, Rose Wilson and her father would have died a long time ago."

"And Clark would still be alive," Diana whispered softly.

For a moment, Kara looked like she'd disagree. But that was Kansas talking. That was Earth. The Kryptonian in her completely agreed with the Amazon's words.

"So now…a new question," Diana suggested, catching Kara's attention. "How many more innocent people will die because of the League's weakness. How many more people will Deathstroke kill?"

Supergirl's face had hardened into a cold mask before Diana's question had even been finished.

"None," she replied.


End file.
